


Take off your pink cowboy boots

by silvervelour



Series: Take off your pink cowboy boots [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Backing dancer Katya, Country singer Trixie, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian AU, Manager Michelle, Mentions of drugs, Mostly fluff though, Smut, Substance Abuse, Touring, kind of a slow burn too, kind of????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvervelour/pseuds/silvervelour
Summary: "Are you alright there?".Trixie jumps, uncrosses her legs and straightens her back rapidly as Katya's voice breaks through the air, spirals until it pierces her eardrums so sharply that she recoils. Katya's laughing, and Trixie is huffing out a giggle too as soon as the darker blonde moves over to join her on the couch, sits down effortlessly on the opposite side.She bends her legs under herself, until she's sitting on the calves that Trixie wants to run her hands up and down, stroke the smooth skin down to her bony ankles. It looks almost contorted, the way she's bent, but she leans in to Trixie's space as if she's used to it; naturally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! i haven't written trixya in a long time, but i had this idea that i just had to put into words. this is written completely different from how i would normally write, so i guess it's quite experimental. i don't know how many chapters it will be in total, i'm kind of letting it develop as i go. anyway, i hope you enjoy!! (that's like, totally not obligatory)♡

Trixie's tired. _Exhausted_ , even, as she stumbles off stage, stands impatiently as she waits for her technical assistant to unclip her microphone, unthread the wire from her shirt. She shifts from one leg to the other, her new leather cowboy boots that she was wearing for the first time cutting into her ankles, leaving painful blisters.

She's free to leave when a producer taps her on her right shoulder, congratulates her on yet another successful show. Trixie smiles, her mouth dry as she mumbles a quiet _thank you_ because she _knows_. She performs every night, on days where she's running on a half an hours sleep that she got on a hotel futon or tour bus couch, when she's mid way through five consecutive tour dates across four different states.

She'll work until her vocal cords are scratchy, until her doctor is warning her that it's overly dangerous and her manager Michelle is screaming at her that she sounds as if she's been smoking a pack of Marlboro cigarettes a day.

It's unhealthy, sometimes, when she can barely drag herself into the horrifically springy tour bus bed at night, wrap herself in blankets that she took from her home apartment in order to make herself feel a little less homesick, and switch off the bedside lamp before her eyes lock shut.

But she gets breaks, often, and she knows it's worth it. When she pauses in awe half way through the chorus of one of her songs, watches as the crowd sing the lyrics of _I know you all over again_ back to her harmoniously.

 _And I'm growing older_  
_I know that we're over_  
_The way we always have been_  
_And then I see you_  
_And I know you all over again_

It registers with them, as it does with Trixie, the emotion she feels in her slower, ballad numbers and the excitement and ecstasy that comes with a handful of her tracks. Bodies jump gleefully, smiles etching themselves across tear stained faces as they do so once Trixie sets down her guitar, motions for her small group of dancers to join her on stage.

She hums contentedly when she pushes open the door to her dressing room, where she expects to see Michelle sitting, scrolling through emails and notifications on her phone with talon acrylic nails. Though she's not, and Trixie is almost grateful as she treads over towards the seat that she'd sat in hours previously, powder brush in hand dusting coral blush across the apples of her cheeks.

A sigh escapes her lungs.

Sweat drips and makeup smudges. Nude lipstick feathers into greasy, worn out foundation as strips of eyelashes threaten to pop away from lash-lines, and clumps of mascara transfer irritatingly.

Fabric sticks to overheated skin in the cramped dressing room even as electric fans blow out cool air that circulates around the room, hits Trixie's flushed cheeks gently. The waistband of her high waisted, pale pink denim shorts digs uncomfortably into her flesh as she perches precariously, legs dangling off of the flimsy director style chair.

Her shoes are kicked off instantly, discarded into the chaotically organised suitcase at her feet as she listens intently to the quieting bustle of the small arena. Fans are leaving, pouring begrudgingly out of the double doors and into the city, gathering in groups to discuss the show.

It's one that Trixie thinks she's proud of, regardless of the fact that it was far from the largest crowd she has played to, reminiscent of the dive bars down south, filled with truckers and trophy wives that her career began in. It was a few hundred or so, mainly wide eyed teenage girls that Trixie has come to adore, now understood the resemblance of themselves that they saw in the blonde and her off-beat comedy that she infiltrates between music.

She brushes her hair slowly, detangles all of the small knots that have formed throughout the course of the show until her once perfected, set curls are dishevelled, cascading over one shoulder. It looks matted, below that standard that Trixie likes her hair to be at; coiffed and high.  
  
Discontent is prevalent, and she grumbles to herself whilst working half of her hair up into an elastic, so that it blooms akin to a flower atop her head. It's not _bad_ , she acknowledges, as she blots her face with tissue in order to remove the excess shine that she despises. She'll take her makeup off before sleeping, she swears, the straps of her lacy bralette beginning to chafe at her cleavage and back beneath her sheer white shirt.

She removes it quickly, disposes of both the bralette and the shirt in lieu of a grey sweatshirt from her own merchandise line, dates and cities plastered across the front in jets of candy floss.

It makes her smile momentarily, even as her feet wince as she walks across the room, folds items haphazardly until her suitcase is full to the brim, causing the zips to threaten to bust open. She laughs at it, chuckles breathily when she picks up her fluffy cream loafers and slides them onto her abused feet. It's a relief, to finally feel comfortable, and she already longs to slip into stuffy warmth of her tour bus, where she thinks she's staying for the night.

She's not certain, however, and knows she needs to find Michelle so that she can find out. A hotel is always a possibility, but she knows that her band members loathe waking up early the following morning in order to travel to the next city.

Trixie doesn't mind it much. Would prefer to sleep in a reasonably sized bed for six hours and wake up early, rather than sleep in what felt like a coffin for ten, regardless of the fact that the bed claimed to be a spacious double.

She double checks the room as she exits, drags her suitcase behind her on its wheels so that they roll jaggedly across the carpeted floor of the hallway backstage. It bashes against skirting boards as she rounds the corner, comes face to face with the dancers dressing room that she thinks Michelle could be hiding away in; _possibly_.

Twisting the handle, suitcase catching at her heels, Trixie pushes open the door and jumps momentarily when it clatters against the back wall. The room is smaller than her own, and she briefly wonders why when there's six dancers and only one of herself that doesn't need as much space as she gets, just for countless items of clothing and makeup. A guitar, too.

Warm yellow light blasts unflatteringly from a singular strip light that's hung from the ceiling by rickety metal chains. Trixie watches as it sways cautiously when the door slams behind her, clicks closed as she steps further into the room.

The dark grey carpet is stained in splotches, a fabric iron shaped mark scorched into the centre of it, adding decoration. It's set up virtually the same as her own dressing room was, a mirror lined with a table top and collapsing chairs that do little to help anyone's posture.

It's vacant of Michelle, also, the only signs that she was ever there being an ash tray littered with menthol cigarette butts; the ones Trixie knows she's been smoking because she's been trying to quit for months, but without much luck.

She turns on her heel, rakes her eyes up and down the body of one of her dancers, the only one that still appears to be in the room, the only blonde. _Katya_.

Trixie's not entirely stupid, isn't stupid at all, really, knows the girls name because of her band and Michelle. She's the elder managers favourite dancer by far, the one that will keep Michelle company at the cities local bars until the early hours of the morning because sometimes keeping track of dates and organisations can be challenging, infuriating.

She'll sip at soda waters as Michelle downs shots upon shots of whiskey because even if she herself doesn't drink, she's well aware that everybody has their vices.

Trixie smiles up at her through the dusty mirror that's covered in fingerprints. She's clothed in next to nothing, underwear with a large red flannel that's unbuttoned thrown on loosely over the top. Her dirty blonde hair is scraped into a messy bun that Trixie can tell once sat on top of her head, though has now slumped so that it's sagging backwards from her crown.

"Katya, right?". Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Trixie watches Katya's eyes widen noticeably. She sniffs, inhales the distinctive mix of perfume and perspiration that clings to every particle of air circulating the room.

"You know my name?". Katya's nose wrinkles, and it draws unwanted attention to her red lipstick that's escaped the lines of her lips, hopped over the fence. Trixie ignores her purposefully as she looks to her feet, her loafers picking up dust.

Katya rolls her eyes, goes back to packing away her things, acknowledges that she'd be a little bratty, too, if she hadn't had sneaked out the back doors of the venue after her performance, smoked a joint under the shelter whilst hiding from the gusty rain.

 _Sighs_.

Teeth nibble at her tongue as she focuses on packing away miscellaneous items of makeup that are scattered across the surface in front of her, and feet shuffle in a pair of navy blue sneakers from side to side, left to right. She stops at a point, swivels her body until she's leaning back on her elbows against the now clean counter, facing Trixie.

Trixie can see the tendons in her ankles and calves flexing as she does so, and quickly draws her attention back up to Katya's face. She's smirking, eyes glinting mockingly even as her face remains soft, posture stays relaxed.

Ignoring how her foot taps menially, Trixie shimmies over to the couch that's nestled in the corner of her room, forgets her suitcase in the middle of the floor as she throws her body down onto the questionably soft cushions.

Crossing her legs, right over left, Trixie exhales raggedly. Katya is still staring her down, lips twisted up casually and elbows still leant on the surface behind her. Her eyebrows are risen ever so slightly, and from where she's sitting Trixie can barely make out where the skin of her forehead creases, frown lines becoming prominent.

Sweat glistens across her chest, her prominent collarbones protruding with every deep inhale and exhale that she takes. Her throat bobs, and Trixie's eyes zone in on it as she sinks back further into the couch, feels her phone pressing into her leg through the thick material of her denim shorts.

Katya clears her throat and it echoes around the room as if it's empty, as if both girls weren't there and their respective suitcases didn't stand abandoned under the harsh glare of the lights reflecting in the grimy mirror.

"Are you alright there?".

Trixie jumps, uncrosses her legs and straightens her back rapidly as Katya's voice breaks through the air, spirals until it pierces her eardrums so sharply that she recoils. Katya's laughing, and Trixie is huffing out a giggle too as soon as the darker blonde moves over to join her on the couch, sits down effortlessly on the opposite side.

She bends her legs under herself, until she's sitting on the calves that Trixie wants to run her hands up and down, stroke the smooth skin down to her bony ankles. It looks almost contorted, the way she's bent, but she leans in to Trixie's space as if she's used to it; naturally.

 _A dancer,_ Trixie reminds herself.

"I'm- yeah". It's stuttered, and a crease appears on Trixie's own forehead where her eyes that are horrifically long sighted try to focus on Katya's features, her nose that's shimmering with gold highlighter and eyebrows that are brushed raggedly in all directions. She wishes that she'd kept her contacts in, or had at least brought her chunky, oversized glasses with her. But she hasn't, so Katya continues observing her with a dart like gaze that stabs at her skin, leaves behind minute prickles.

"Sure?". Katya's tone is light, almost teasing as she cocks one of those eyebrows that Trixie has been admiring, twists her body so that she's sitting like Trixie is, her back pressed against the back of the couch and legs crossed in front of her. Shrugging, Trixie taps her fingernails atop of her knee, finds fascination in the way her skin blooms white, and then red and cherry blossom pink, that matches her shade of nail varnish.

"Have you seen Michelle? Manager Michelle?". Trixie's voice comes out husky, and she makes a mental note to whisk up a cup of honey and lemon when she leaves, drink it whilst she removes her makeup and exfoliates. Moisturises, also. She knows her skin needs it.

Katya shakes her head tentatively, lets a low _no_ slip out her mouth. She's tired, as is Trixie, blissfully so, and is grateful that Trixie doesn't seem entirely ignorant and obnoxious which makes a pleasant change from some acts that she's danced for in the past.

Trixie sighs in response, allows her body to relax until her elbow rests on the back of the couch, manoeuvres her body until she's facing Katya directly. The dancer looks peaceful to Trixie, angelic, and it's different from how she normally appears when they lock eye contact briefly on stage as Trixie's singing, microphone in hand, and Katya's dancing in the crowd behind her.

She wonders briefly if it's from the joint that she can tell that Katya must have smoked due to the aromas of smoke and weed that linger around her, have weaved their ways into her strands of hair and woven cotton clothes.

Contemplation strikes her, as she ponders wether or not to ask Katya who's still sat infuriatingly in her underwear and plaid shirt, if she has any left to spare. Any that Trixie can roll with practiced fingers and ignite with her _Dolly Parton_ lighter that she keeps in her makeup bag. She decides against it when Katya reaches over to the arm of the couch next to her, pulls on a sweater that's long enough and baggy enough to cover her whole body, end at mid thigh.

"She left a little while ago, _something_ about booking a hotel for the night". Relents Katya as she pulls the drawstrings of the hood on her sweater tighter, until it hugs her neck closely where there are plum hickeys blossoming. Trixie nods gratefully, gives up on the idea that had struck her earlier in the night to locate Michelle and greet fans out of the back door to the venue.

She always does it, though. Looks for her manager after the show, wants to know if there's fans waiting out back. She'll go and see them and take a couple of photos, doesn't mind getting her long blonde curly hair wet in the light drizzle of rain. She'll go back to the tourbus, then, where her band are, fall asleep instantly as they drive across the state border and into the next.

She knows that the dancers travel separately, have a bus that isn't quite as nice as Trixie's and the bands, and it crosses her mind briefly to change that, make Michelle hire a better and more adequate bus if they're all as _Katya_ as Katya is.

Trixie smiles to herself, focusing on Katya's words. It's been too long since she's slept in an actual bed, and she's grateful Michelle has decided to book hotels even if it means she'll have to be up ridiculously early the following morning in order to travel to the next city.

"Oh, right". Trixie mulls over her words further as she observes the room. Everybody's packed up and gone apart from Katya. She's the only dancer who's there, who is still entertaining mundane, menial small talk with Trixie as her suitcase stands packed, ready to leave and cart back into the tour bus, or the hotels they would be staying at for the night.

"How come you're still here?". Voices Trixie. Katya looks amused, and the laugh that follows confirms Trixie's suspicions. She stands up quickly, so that Trixie barely has time to readjust her eyesight. Katya's back by the counter, hip jotted out noticeably.

A smirk is still plastered across her face, and Trixie wonders when it'll leave, _if_ it will leave.

"I could ask you the same thing-". Begins Katya, grasping ahold of her suitcase handle with the hand that isn't holding the can of energy drink that she's just picked up off of aforementioned counter. She kisses her teeth, clicks her tongue before continuing.

"- _But_ I won't. Michelle doesn't mind if I regroup with everybody a little later, I got caught up after the show tonight and just-". Katya pauses, or rather Trixie cuts her off by shivering as goosebumps appear on her skin, hairs standing on end.

"Right". Trixie nods, notices the purple lipstick prints along katyas neck again that's she tried but failed to remove with a makeup wipe. She knows, and Katya knows that too. Trixie's eyes gleam unknowingly, and Katya's smirk, that smirk that Trixie wants to wipe clean off of her face prevails.

"Are you heading back to the hotel too?". Exasperation takes over, but Trixie doesn't want to be rude, wants to be as nice as she can seeing as Katya spends her nights prancing around illuminated stages for her. Her limbs must ache more than Trixie's do, and certainly more than any of her band members do after what she knows is their fourth consecutive night of performing.

"I think so, yeah". A lack of confidence washes over Katya for the first time since Trixie had entered the room, and it's strange, albeit a little endearing to observe.

Things are a little awkward. They've never held more than basic small talk whilst waiting to go on stage, or whilst congregated at an airport or service station when they're waiting for their flyover or one of the tour buses has ran out of gas for the umpteenth time.

Katya shuffles from one foot to the other, her knuckles turning white under the force that she's gripping the handle of her suitcase with. Trixie wants to grab ahold of them, make sure they relax so that she doesn't end up with crescent moon shaped indentations in the palm of her hand.

She looks towards Trixie slowly, rises one shoulder uncertainly. Trixie has moved to stand, also, is picking up her own suitcase from back where she left it in the middle of the room. The plastic feels sweaty beneath her fingertips, so she wipes her hand down briskly upon her sweater before placing it back on to the handle.

"Nice to get an actual bed, am I right?". Katya asks, to which Trixie smiles instantly.

She's right, Trixie knows that much. Her back aches and her legs need to stretch out so that her toes are wrapped in warm, fleecy bed sheets. A longing to feel her bare skin against the mattress fills her soul as she feels the skin of her thighs rub together.

"I was just thinking that-". She trails off, taking a single step closer to Katya. "But, I think we're the last people here, apart from security, and I doubt there's any fans left either, 'wanna head out?". Trixie hurries out her words, and to Katya they sound like more of a jumble of syllables and exhalations that she can't quite piece together.

She nods regardless, manages to gather what Trixie means once the blonde begins rolling her suitcase towards the exit of the room. She motions her thumb towards the door, fluffs her hair with her free hand.

Katya makes it to the door before Trixie does, so she holds it open graciously. Trixie smiles softly and follows uncharacteristically obediently all of the way through the hallways, out towards the small and private outdoor area where Michelle is stood, relaxed aura surrounding her.

 _"Hotel, ladies?"_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of her still wishes it was different, though, even if it is just the smallest bit. Homesickness visits her often, barges into the doors of her mind and soul without a go ahead or a welcome sign hanging from the porch in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writers block 2 chapters in??? can't relate. this was a bit of a struggle to write, but i got there and i'm pretty happy with it. i hope you enjoy! ♡

Hotels are her new favourite thing, Trixie decides.  
  
She wakes up at six, when the sun has barely begun rising and peaking through curtains in the clouds, and birds chirp morning greetings to early risers. Relaxation floods her body, the muscles of her spine feel alive again and her mind is tranquil; filled with peace and serenity.  
  
She rolls over in the bed.  
  
Whoever's in the room next to her is already awake, fussing and shuffling around. She can tell from the slow drip of the shower that's audible through the plasterboard thin walls and the god awful wallpaper that she swears hasn't been changed since _1972_. It lulls her softly, kisses at her senses whilst her eyes remain closed.  
  
Her alarm clock blasted unforgivingly twenty minutes or so ago, the shrill sound forcing her to bury her head into the pillow that smells of lavender, or vanilla, or the perfume she had been wearing the night before. She's not able to pinpoint it, not when she's so calm and out of it, feeling the bed sheets bunch at her bare waist where she's neglected to pull on a shirt.  
  
It buzzes again minutes later, as does her phone, and she knows she has to move. Michelle is probably already awake, dressed, and waiting in the hotel lobby with the dancers and the band. A day full of commitments, that Trixie doesn't want to admit lay ahead.  
  
A groan leaves her body unwittingly.  
  
She can already feel the solemn mood dragging her underwater, and she feels like she's drowning, despite having had more than enough sleep on a relatively comfortable bed. Motivation overtakes regardless, and her lungs are akin to a deadweight in her chest, filled with water as she throws on black yoga pants and the same sweatshirt that she'd discarded on the end of her bed the previous night.  
  
Disheveled is the only word that comes to the forefront of her mind as Trixie drags her fingers through numerous knots and tangles, throws the unruly bleached strands into a high bun that sits just off centre. It'll have to do, she settles, and once she makes sure to gather up her phone and it's respective charger she's out of the door with suitcase in hand and fluffy brogues on her feet.  
  
Blisters are already rising to the surface of her heels from where her new boots had rubbed them as she pranced around stage, and she's grateful for the cushion the soles provide. It's not a long walk from her room to the lobby, only down two corridors and a flight of stairs that she wouldn't have to have descended if the elevator wasn't occupied.  
  
But Michelle is rushing her, has sent through at least five text messages that flash as notifications on Trixie's phone screen. She ignores them, stuffs her phone into the waistband of her yoga pants as it continues to vibrate irritatingly.  
  
**Michelle: Lobby, six thirty, be there! xo**  
  
**Michelle: Update, be there by six twenty! There's traffic on the highway that we might get stuck in if we don't leave before the morning rush x**  
  
**Michelle: Trixie where are you? Everybody else is here waiting**  
  
**Michelle: TRIXIE**  
  
**Michelle: Don't make me come and get yo** u  
  
lifting her arm, Trixie glances briefly at the leather watch that adorns her wrist, rosé strap with gold accents. It reads almost _seven_ , and Trixie knows for certain that she's in for a day of hell from Michelle that will consist of aggressive motherly stares and bitter, backhanded comments.  
  
If she's lucky, Michelle will choose to travel on the other bus for once, leave her to own devices where she'll spend the hours leading up to the late night show watching comedy reruns with her band and listening to her old country playlists.  
  
It's unrealistic, however, and Trixie's fully aware of that. Knows that Michelle will stick around for that much longer just because Trixie didn't show up on time that morning, was more content with staying in bed than getting to work.  
  
_Work_.  
  
Sometimes Trixie feels like a fraud. Can't help but feel the smallest twinge of guilt nagging at her for not being willing to comply with Michelle's arrangements, do as all of the other members of the tour would do without question.  
  
She should feel grateful, blessed that she can rise everyday and perform every night to a crowd that have voluntarily spent money on flimsy tickets just to watch her jig about on an uneven stage, play her _Gibson guitar_ and sing the lyrics to songs she wrote.  
  
She supposes she does, feel grateful that is. Is thankful that she's not stuck in some deadbeat _nine 'till five_ where she knows for a fact she'd still be depressed, praying and living off of the tips she would get from wealthy old women when they'd take pity on her.  
  
Part of her still wishes it was different, though, even if it is just the smallest bit. Homesickness visits her often, barges into the doors of her mind and soul without a go ahead or a welcome sign hanging from the porch in her eyes.  
  
Her mom still lives down south with her brother, and she misses them. There are occasions when she wants to ask them to join her, so that her mom can make Trixie her favourite apple and cinnamon pie whenever she craves it, which is normally after every show when her blood sugar has drained to its lowest point.  
  
But she guesses, and she knows that that's unrealistic too, and is better off flushing the thought from her head, sending it off downstream. She's able to do so in an instance these days, has become so used to such things that they're almost second nature.  
  
She exits the hallway.  
  
Her face never falters as she enters the hotel lobby, where true to Michelle's words she's sitting waiting, Katya the dancer at her side, agitation etching its way onto her features. The band, for the most part, with the exception of her drummer are sitting too, the other dancers congregated in a further away corner.  
  
"Sleeping beauty rises, _finally_ ". Michelle jibes.  
  
Trixie mumbles an unintelligible _sorry_ and it's all she can do to stop Michelle from skinning her alive in anger. Her stiletto shaped nails would do the job all by themselves, surely.  
  
"Sorry won't cut it when you're late to your show tonight, Trixie". Michelle is near seething, gritting her teeth so violently that Trixie can almost hear them grinding, scratching away fillings.  
  
Trixie's head shoots up, so that she's confronted with Michelle's blazing green orbs. They make her shiver, take a step backwards so that she bumps into her own suitcase.  
  
Cursing momentarily to herself, Trixie observes as Katya, who's sitting next to Michelle nudges the older woman. A jab to the ribs that manages to silence the older woman quicker than Trixie's every succeeded in doing. She's thankful for it, is in puzzled awe of how Katya did such a thing; halted Michelle's ramblings.  
  
"You're here now. That's what matters. _Right_ , Michelle?". Katya smiles, tight lipped and accusatory. Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and Trixie thinks it's directed towards Michelle and not herself. But she doesn't know Katya well, at all frankly, and quickly brushes it off as a maybe.  
  
"Shall we leave?". Breathes Trixie. Her body is awake, functioning, but her mind is still deep in a slumber in the hotel room upstairs. It's how it should be. In her current state of mind she's almost blissfully unaware of Michelle's disdain and the crews tiresome surveillance.  
  
"Give me an hour, I need to catch up on my sleep". Michelle intrudes, leaving Trixie rolling her eyes and sneering her nostrils. She turns on her heel, drops the handle of her suitcase because she doesn't care. Not with Michelle being snarky and rude; _unpleasant_.  
  
_Somebody_ will bring her suitcase to the tour bus, she scoffs. It's what they get payed for.  
  
*****  
  
Once Trixie's on the bus, she ignores everybody and everything, drifts off to sleep and doesn't awaken until they've arrived at the venue. Even then she utters barely a sentence to Michelle who's beginning to look apologetic, or at least sympathetic.  
  
It warms her a little, to see the warmer side of Michelle once in a while, compared to the usual cold façade she's presented with.  
  
_Façade_.  
  
It's the right word, for sure. They've held conversations with one and other outside of work, when Michelle's not in manager mode and is instead in mother Michelle mode. She's caring, compassionate, and acknowledging that the elder woman isn't always as bitter as she seems to be currently lights a flame of guilt in Trixie's gut.  
  
But wind blows so that the flame quickly diminishes, and Trixie's never been one for sympathy, so she performs with more gusto and will power then she thinks she has throughout the whole leg of the tour, until she's sweating her makeup off under the strobe lights and her heart is pumping ferociously in her mouth.  
  
*****  
  
Crawling backstage feels like a chore that night to Trixie. She's well rested but exhausted, buzzed from the show yet simultaneously drained; an empty well with an anchor sitting in her stomach.  
  
She slinks to her dressing room, opens the door to the room that's bigger than the one from the day before. It makes her feel emptier, and she doesn't like it, wants to lock herself in the small cupboard that's within the room just to feel whole again.  
  
Doubtfully, she doesn't think it'll work as time ticks away without any recognition. Her stare travels blankly ahead into the stand alone mirror that's propped up on the counter, illuminated by blue hued bulbs. Convinced that if she gazes for a long enough period she'll travel through said mirror, enter an alternate dimension where her thoughts are free to come and go as they please, she continues sitting mute.  
  
Michelle's words and actions have weaved their ways so far under her skin that she doesn't think they will leave until she lets them slip from her open mouth whilst sleeping.  
  
_Sleep_. She needs more of it.  
  
Nails dig subconsciously into her thighs as she perches, lets her thoughts stew and thicken. It leaves her with red scratches and white fingerprints from where she's gripped so hard in what she determines to be antagonism, _displeasure_.  
  
Her ears peak when the rain that was already falling outside gets heavier. It hits the tin roof in pelts and bolts, until Trixie's worried that it might cave in and she'll drown again.  
  
Most fans won't wait outside in this weather, that Trixie is positive about. The ones that will, because there are always some, the crew tell her, will be sent away by security after no less than thirty minutes if Trixie doesn't show up.  
  
That'll be the case, she notes, because she has neither the patience, tolerance or motivation to do so. It's harsh, she's aware, knows that it's not her adoring fans that have wound her strings so tight that she feels as if she's on the verge of snapping, springing back out of place.  
  
It's a bad habit that she needs to break, destroy with every atom of her being; _spitefulness_.  
  
It'll get her nowhere, even if she knows that her supporters won't mind. They'll understand if she posts a picture with a heartfelt caption later that night on social media, claiming something along the lines of over-tiredness or needing to hurry to the next city, that it couldn't have been helped.  
  
She does just that as she sits there, taps at her phone screen with her bouncy, slightly greasy fingertips until she's sent out a message across all platforms.  
  
_**The crowd tonight was everything! A truly wonderful city that I'll definitely be visiting again (even if it's just for your fabulous donuts) Sorry I couldn't meet everybody that waited tonight, it's a non stop rush to the next city - I love you guys! ♡** _  
  
_Plausible_ , she guesses, thinks that she would believe it if the roles were reversed. _Maybe_. Setting her phone down onto the countertop, Trixie rests her head in her hands, presses the heels of them into her eye sockets so that some of the mounting pressure in her head is relieved.  
  
There's no possibility of smudging her makeup further. The amount she had sweated on the heated stage had already taken care of that job, with both of her eyelashes having popped off before she had even made it backstage and her contour fading to nothingness.  
  
Sighing heavily, she focuses on the pattering sound of the rain that's proving to be more than an efficient distraction from packing away her things, leaving to regroup with the crew - and _Michelle_.  
  
There's gentle tinkles followed by thunderous wails and the noise is only broken by a tap on Trixie's dressing room door, and the creek it makes as it's being opened by somebody without Trixie giving giving them the go-ahead.  
  
"Hey".  
  
_Katya_.  
  
Her voice is gruff. Husky to the extent that it wouldn’t surprise Trixie if she’d just chain smoked a pack, or more, of polluted cigarettes. The thought makes her roll her eyes, because she’s never understood the point, or the appeal of smoking, and according to Michelle she doesn’t have enough concept of addiction to even begin to understand. It’s laughable, because Trixie does, and she knows that but they don’t so she remains silent, boils quietly in the corners of her mind.

Trixie looks up, sees Katya stepping slowly towards her. She’s tentative, unsure, and Trixie arches an eyebrow. It’s unclear why Katya’s there, imposing on her moment, Trixie thinks momentarily, until Katya’s nibbling at the chipped nail of her thumb nervously.

“Can I help you?”. Trixie doesn’t mean to be as rude as she’s coming across, but she’s tired and bitter and in need of either a cry or somebody to kiss senseless, drag back to her tour bus and not allow them to leave until morning. She supposes she could settle for both, or neither.

The expression upon Katya’s face is almost stoic, with Trixie’s words freezing her skin and refusing to thaw it out again afterwards.  
  
“Michelle sent me”. It’s murmured, and Trixie finds herself tapping her own nails across the countertop in an irritating composition of rhythms that make Katya scrunch up her nose.

“Why you?”. Trixie’s words hurt, cut Katya a little where she’s already sore. It makes her snap, until she stands up straighter, pops her spine so that she appears to have been stricken with a new wave of previously unfound confidence.

  
“I guess she saw us speaking earlier and assumed we're friendlier than we _actually_ are”. Bites Katya, it's like she springs akin to an elastic band being stretched too far before composing herself.  
  
Trixie huffs because it's unexpected, and she’s forced to listen to the words that leave Katya’s mouth.  
  
“And?”.    
  
“She said she's sent you texts but you won't answer”. _Elaboration_. Katya does it quickly so that if Trixie has any follow up questions she can spit them out rapidly, so that Katya can answer them with practiced precision.  
  
When Trixie simply hums, Katya disregards what she had been saying previously, twists her own fingers as she speaks, begins walking closer until she’s stood no more than a foot away from Trixie. Her mouth opens before she speaks, the words jumbled in her mouth.

  
“She's sorry for how she reacted this morning-”. Katya pauses, halts her words. “-She knows it's not the end of the world. You were only half an hour or so late, I think she's fully aware that it could've been a lot worse-”. Katya urges herself to stop, knows that if she doesn’t she’ll end up rambling continuously.  
  
For how erratic Katya can be, she sounds wise to Trixie’s ears, and the lighter blonde finds herself nodding, is becoming used to the tone of Katya’s voice filling up and overflowing from the void in her ears.  


“She couldn't have told me that herself?”. Trixie's still bitter despite the gentle nature of Katya’s words and Michelle’s attempted apology, and finds herself unable to put down the grudge, let go of it.  
  
Katya stalks over to where Trixie's sitting in the director's style chair, thinks that they must be a theme at gig venues; that’s all she’s seen across twenty-four states. Director’s chairs.    
  
She can see Trixie visibly deflate, and Trixie feels like a child's bouncy castle that's been popped with a pin, is slowly losing all the air within as her chest sinks, back slouches so that she no longer looks as visibly distraught.  
  
Katya leans against the counter so that she's blocking part of the light from Trixie's view, and Trixie’s eyes hone in on Katya’s powerful, defined thighs that swell as she sits and crosses her legs once she’s propped herself up.    
  
“Are you that mad at Michelle?”. Tries katya, volume lowered so that any passers by in the building will be blind, unaware of their conversation as Katya swipes away flecks of mascara from under her own eyes with the tips of her fingers.  
  
Trixie shakes her head once, alerting Katya to the fact that _no_ , I’m not that mad at Michelle, but I can’t let it go because I’m _Trixie_ and letting it go would mean accepting it. Trixie doesn’t, categorically will not accept it, even under the pressure of the disastrous combination of homesickness and exhaustion that are dwindling her passion for both music and performing.  
  
“Then what's up, doll?”. The earnest look in Katya's eyes surprises Trixie, as does the term of endearment. Doll. It makes her shiver pleasantly, as do the veins in Katya’s wrist that are bulging prominently from gripping the edge of the countertop.

Glancing away, Trixie begins packing away her makeup into the clear PVC bag that she has laid out ready, throws in items that she knows won’t be safe in her suitcase whilst travelling, yet she does it anyway, unbothered.  
  
“Nothing, I'm fine”. It's blunt and sharp, and it rocks Katya just when she thought she was progressing with the younger girl, succeeding in getting her to drop whatever act she was seeking to portray.  
  
Katya turns her head, inhales, catches sight of the Polaroid that Trixie's tacked to the mirror, of her and her mom and her brother. The sight makes Katya's heart clench for Trixie, until she’s clearing her throat and uncrossing her legs.  
  
“Missin' home a little?”. Her accent is thicker than Trixie’s used to. She knows it’s Boston, Michelle had told her that much when they had first hired the energetic blonde out of flocks of hundreds, if not thousands of auditionees. The accuracy comes as a shock to Trixie, and Katya seems more confident again when Trixie murmurs a barely audible _I guess._  
  
Katya understands, places Trixie's last lipstick inside the bag for her, says nothing more until Trixie’s doe eyes glare up towards her from her lower position on the chair, where her posture is entirely shapeless.  
  
“Come on, I'm ready to leave if you are”. All of Trixie’s items are in a suitcase and her handbag, so she agrees wordlessly, a sense of Deja Vu striking her as she follows Katya out of the dressing room door, hot on her heels until they’re gathered with Michelle again, suitcases at their sides.

Katya taps Trixie on the shoulder before she climbs onto the dancers bus moments later, breathes out a genuine _good job tonight_ , squeezes before she lets go. Trixie stands smiling, nods once in acknowledgment towards michelle. _She’s ok._

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It shouldn’t be allowed, Katya thinks, to have fingers that soft when you play guitar for a living, strum and pluck the strings so fiercely that sometimes you end up with jagged cuts under your nails that sting every time they’re submerged in water, touched to subtle fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are progressing!!! anyway, i never know what to say in these notes so i'll just leave it at this, i hope you enjoy!! feedback is appreciated ♡

Loitering.    
  
Trixie does it, a _lot_. Likes to take time packing up her stuff, makeup products and miscellaneous clothing items, so that she can avoid the flood of chaos that breaks through the dam when the bass ceases to thump and her voice no longer travels through the microphone and out of the tiny speakers.    
  
She likes to fuss, too, is almost a perfectionist when it comes to applying her winged eyeliner or lipstick. She'll sit with her head in a mirror for hours, redoing each fine line until their as close to identically symmetrical that they can get.    
  
Her mascara flicks out her eyelashes so that fake eyelashes aren't a necessity, but she'll put them on anyway so that the illusion is complete.   
  
Trixie views makeup as another aspect to her artistry, and it's hard to disagree with when the lines are so finessed and defined to the extent that they appear as crisp as they do. She likes how it makes onlookers do double takes sometimes, or inspires fans to pick up graphite pencils, recreate what they see on Trixie's face on a cream sheet of paper.   
  
Trixie shuffles her feet around in her new leather boots that she's slowly breaking in, moves to stand at the side of the stage where her group of dancers are waiting ready to join her band that are already on stage, sweltering under the western heat and LED bulbs.   
  
It's not an issue, nor is it an advantage in any way. It isn't anything, really, doesn't bother neither Trixie or her team to the extent that anybody ever mentions it to her. They allow her to do as she pleases, be it staying late at venues whilst only a handful of security guards remain, awaiting their opportunity to lock up, or spontaneously dyeing her hair a candy floss pink.    
  
Michelle thinks it'll ruin her image, but Trixie doesn't care. Not when she feels fully submerged in her _Dolly Parton_ rose gold country fantasy that she's always wanted to surround herself in.    
  
She turns around. _Dancer Katya_ is stood just to the right of her, observing Trixie, flexing and stretching her elbows so that she doesn't pull or rupture any muscles whilst throwing herself around on stage.    
  
It's _hot_ , is Trixie's first thought.   
  
She still finds the girls appearance intoxicating, and the thought of trailing her hands up and down her strong legs and her pegged ankles refuses to leave her mind even as she focuses on her unpleasant chipped nail varnish that's flaking more by the second.   
  
It only serves to remind her of the last time she was able to find solace in the arms of a girl with calloused palms and a filthy imagination that would press her up against the nearest wall, or into cheap motel bed sheets that scratched at her already irritated skin.    
  
Trixie wants, _needs_ that. She hasn't allowed herself to neck a few shots of alcohol in too long, head to the nearest local bar where nobody would have heard of a country singer that wears only pink and covers herself in glitter, lock herself in a grimy toilet cubicle with a shorter blonde until she was left trembling, shaking.    
  
She shivers, and her eyes are drawn back to Katya who's still raking her eyes up and down Trixie's body that's scantily clad in a sheer pink romper that hugs at her hips, cuts off just before it brushes her upper thighs.    
  
They haven't spoken for upwards of a week, Trixie thinks. Since Katya had gripped her shoulder tightly, told her how she'd done a _good job_ with the show that night and boarded her tour bus without batting an eyelid.    
  
She smiles at Trixie, until her cherry lipstick is catching on her white porcelain teeth that are dry from lack of saliva and glimmering due to the glow of the dimly lit corridor. Trixie takes a step closer, until she can feel the warmth reverberating off of Katya's body.    
  
Katya's already beginning to sweat, Trixie notices, and she hasn't even stepped on stage yet where Trixie's fully aware it'll pump from her even more. Trixie wants to scrunch her hands into the fabric of the flannel shirt that she's wearing, that all the dancers wear with black denim shorts and kitten heels.    
  
Sweat would ring out of the cotton, drop between Trixie's fingers as she whimpered. The thought almost makes her eyes roll back into her skull as she steps forward further, until she's eye level with Katya thanks to her flat boots and the darker blondes patent heels.    
  
Without them, she knows she'd be taller, and it's enticing knowing that Katya would be able to kiss and bite at her jaw, her neck, without bending or tilting her head.    
  
" _Ready_?".    
  
Katya's eyes are dark as she questions Trixie, her voice scratchy and deep. It makes Trixie nibble at the inside of her cheek, and she can taste metal, blood forming on the tip of her tongue.    
  
Nodding her head affirmatively, Trixie glances briefly down at her feet, where the toes of her shoes are scuffed from were she's caught them on steps or door corners, sidewalks or skirting boards. The marks remind her of each step she takes, even as she briefly acknowledges the stage hand shouting across the room about sixty seconds.    
  
"Will you come to my dressing room after you've packed up tonight?". Blurts Trixie, and Katya's looking at her like she knows, but she doesn't because it's not what Trixie's asking, really.    
  
Katya stammers momentarily, rubs her lips together, evening out her lipstick. It's going grainy, but she can't find it in herself to reapply it when she knows it'll smudge while dancing, anyway. Will end up streaked from the corners of her mouth and down to her dimpled chin.   
  
"Uh-". Begins Katya, uncertain. "-Why? Are you sure?". Her eyes widen, as do Trixie's when she realises what Katya believes her intentions are.    
  
Touching her hand to her chest, Trixie rapidly shakes her head, eyes still bulged so that her irises appear blown out. She's blushing too, and though it's not visible through her layers of makeup, her foundation and her counter, she thinks that Katya's eyes have gained _X-ray_ vision, so that she can see through it and to Trixie's bare skin that's ladened with freckles and beauty spots.    
  
" _Oh_ , no I-". Trixie sees the same stage hand signal thirty seconds. "Michelle's not 'gonna be here tonight, something to do with family I guess, and I just, I have a few outfits to run through and-". Trixie pauses once again, only continues when Katya nods her head mutely.    
  
"-I didn't know who else to ask". She admits. Trixie looks sheepish, but Katya nods regardless, smiles gently across to Trixie with blazing, smokey eyes that are heavily blended with black eyeshadow. Her arm reaches out so that her hand cups Trixie's pointed elbow, nails scraping the soft skin.    
  
"Give me like, ten minutes to pack up after everybody's left, and I'll be there". Her eyes flutter at Katya's offer, and Trixie purses her lips, gratified.    
  
The stage hand is still counting down, fingers slowly descending from ten to zero as he holds open the curtain that leaves the stage exposed, allows the wails and screams of fans to infiltrate her ears.    
  
"Thank you-". Trixie draws in a heavy breath, feels the hand of a technical assistant switch on her microphone pack that's clipped to the leather belt on her romper, wrapped around her waist. "-I'll see you there". She confirms, takes a step back from Katya.    
  
"See 'ya". Katya's hand lingers at her elbow where she squeezes, and Trixie doesn't mind, for once, how tactile Katya seems to be. She still finds the twang to her accent to be fascinating, too. It's enthralling and erotic whilst remaining goofy and friendly. A combination that shouldn't work but does; _unquestionably_.   
  
It's nice, she decides.    
  
_Trixie likes it_.    
  
*****   
  
When Katya arrives at Trixie's dressing room later that night, it's not by barging in like she had the last time she'd arrived at Trixie's dressing room a week prior, carting a message from Michelle's mouth.    
  
Instead, it’s with a light, tentative knock to the door as she waits for Trixie to hum a faint yeah, pull on the door handle until she's able to step inside the room. Most things inside appear to have been packed, by Trixie herself. It's a trait which Katya finds quite humbling, grounding; Trixie's would be independence.    
  
The only items that aren't packed is a rail filled with clothing that all looks the same on first glance to Katya's untrained eyes, and Trixie's cell phone that she's left resting on top of her bag.    
  
Katya steps in, and although Trixie had asked her to come and she was in turn expecting the zany blonde to turn up, she wasn't really. She thought Katya would have better things to do do, better people to do and spend her time with, rather than rummage through shirts and dresses and skirts with a country singer who feels like she's had her day already.    
  
"You came". Trixie smiles over to Katya whose hair is falling into her eyes. She tries to brush it away, fails, lets the shorter pieces of curly hair that once existed as a fringe fall into her eyelashes.    
  
It makes Trixie giggles lowly, airily, until Katya's face falls noticeably. She shifts from one foot to the other, and her tan leather shoes that Trixie thinks her grandmother would wear slip from the heels of her dainty feet.   
  
"Did you think I wasn't going to?". Trixie thinks she sounds offended, until she's grinning manically and moving to stand next to Trixie where the younger girl is leaning against the counter top. She's looking at numerous dresses, shorts and shirts that are pegged onto aforementioned clothing rail, drooping where they've been ironed and steamed.    
  
"I don't know". Settles Trixie, pushing herself away from the countertop until she's standing, so that her earlier suspicions of being taller than Katya without inches of heels are proven to be correct.    
  
There's not much of a height difference. Trixie doesn't think it can be more than three, _maybe_ four inches, but it's a lot when she can see that Katya's craning her neck just to maintain eye contact with her, to be able to blaze her focus directly through Trixie's orbs.    
  
The veins there bulge, blue rivers pulsing and throbbing under tan skin that's glittering with patches of heated red. It's a vision that does little to quell the insistent thrum of Trixie's heartbeat, even when she's suppose to be picturing herself in different items of clothing, and not what Katya would like like without hers.    
  
It's contradictory, but Trixie presses on, sucks in her cheeks.    
  
Katya's cackling, unashamedly. She's rolling her shoulders so that Trixie's eyes fall again to her collarbones that are protruding from the low neckline of an old grey tshirt that's stained with either makeup _or_ food; Trixie can't decipher.    
  
"My fashion forward self is here and ready". Confidence pours from atom of Katya's being, out of every pore and every cell that's flaming with exuberance.    
  
"I'm already regretting asking you". Trixie's laughing, too, in spite of the niggling feeling that's parked itself in her chest, refusing to move. Rolling her eyes jokingly, teasing, Trixie flicks her hair over one shoulder. _It'll keep it out of her way_ , she reasons.    
  
Katya scoffs, gestures wildly at the shorts she's wearing that are riding low on her hips, raggedy shirt tucked into the front and back of them; but not the sides.    
  
"But Trixie, look at this _pattern_!". Katya's grasping at the loose material of her shorts with bony fingers and flexible wrists that jut out, so that Trixie's forced to look at the pattern that she decides instantly is hideous.   
  
_Horrific_ , even.    
  
"I am and it's giving me a headache". Trixie deadpans, allows her eyebrows to furrow so that they're knotted up on her forehead. Katya pouts, but Trixie knows she not being serious when the corners of her mouth threaten to twitch, upturn into a smile.    
  
"Stop complaining-". Katya pauses to sigh mockingly. "-You could've waited for Michelle to come back, but here we are". She draws out her words, and Trixie's left nodding her head while Katya begins riffing through a section of dresses towards the right side of the rack.    
  
She lifts one off, holds it up to Trixie's front so that she can examine it, decide whether or not she thinks it will look good on Trixie's frame. She thinks it _will_ , possibly. The Bardot neck would graze Trixie's décolletage, as the tight tube top and sleeves would hug at her breasts before flaring out, brushing the sun kissed skin of her upper thighs.    
  
"I know-". Comments Trixie, shakes her head no when Katya raises a sculpted eyebrow in relevance to the dress that she's still holding, adorned with lace detailing. "-You probably know what works better for moving around in than Michelle does, anyway".    
  
Katya straightens her shoulders. Her posture stands to attention as her chin tilts up proudly, jaw cutting through the air. Trixie watches her intently, gives a lopsided grin when Katya sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, releases it with a pop and a giggle seconds later.    
  
"Damn right I do".    
  
Trixie blinks once, twice, _three_ times. They continue shuffling through the rack of clothing, laughing that items that Trixie would never wear but Katya _probably_ would, if she could cut off a frill or two.    
  
There are few items that they agree on; too puffy, too short, too long, too country, not country enough, too _pink_. Trixie doesn't believe the statement, naturally, couldn't ever feel as if she was wearing too much pink when she lives in a world of beiges, creams, _greys_. Muted colours that she'll never be fond of.    
  
Katya remains focused, for the most part. Distraction only striking when she discovers an item of clothing that's particularly amusing to her. A skirt with velvet cut outs or a shirt with _lilac bows that deserve to be chopped off_ , she murmurs.    
  
Her eyes shimmer with glee and amazement, even as her hands grapple for purchase in the fabric that slips through fingers akin to grains of sand, or dribbles of water. It makes Trixie smile, how she seems to be more than content with such practices and events even if she claims that she's only there because Michelle can't be.    
  
It's a half truth that transforms into a lie.    
  
Katya's elated, eventually, to be spending her post-show Friday night searching through outfits with Trixie because she knows and understands the way that Trixie has been looking at her; _still_ is looking at her.    
  
Katya's well acquainted with said look. The look that tells Katya that Trixie wants to dig her fingernails into her shoulder blades, hook her legs around her waist and pull her in closer, further, until their bodies are pressed flushed against one and other.    
  
It makes her clench her thighs, feel the sweat threatening to escape her skin and drip down her forehead and spine. Her thighs too as they tremble from having stood for a prolonged period of time without forcing them to stretch, flex.   
  
She guesses she doesn't mind, if that's Trixie's sole intention. Not at all with the way her body is yearning for Trixie so obviously and so bashfully.    
  
Katya proceeds regardless, watches the girls curly hair bounce with every bob of her head, every swing of her arms and step of her feet.   
  
Trixie blanches when she holds up a matching barely there crop top and mini skirt, both in the same shade of off white. Katya laughs along side the lighter blonde, grimaces when Trixie holds up the offending items to her body, gestures to Katya's slim figure.   
  
"This would look good on _you_ , actually". Banters Trixie, to which Katya responds with a roll of her eyes. It's vile. Katya knows that, and knows that Trixie is more than aware of the same fact. She wouldn't be caught dead in it.   
  
"No way-". Katya coughs, covers her mouth with the back of her hand that isn't holding onto a flimsy lemon button up shirt. "-It looks like something the other dancers would wear on their days off". Trixie gulps, and is laughing nervously within seconds of the words flowing unrestricted from Katya’s mouth. 

  
“What are you saying?”. She smirks, leaving Katya shrugging her shoulders with ease. Her mouth opens before sentences exit, travel through the air with a velocity akin to sprinting. She’s laughing again along with Trixie, scuffing her shoes along the carpeted floor that’s covered with splotches of gum and dirt. 

Hooking the outfit, a pink leather jacket and shorts combination, back on onto the rail, Katya takes a step forward. Her front is practically pressed against Trixie’s, and she can feel the heavy rise and fall of the girls lungs as she breathes in and out, inhales and exhales. 

  
“I don't know if you've noticed but I don't exactly _fit in_ with them, Trixie”. Her eyes are crossing with the lack of distance between herself and Trixie, but she can’t bring herself to step back when Trixie’s breath smells like the sweetest sherry and the richest vanilla. 

Trixie frowns and cocks an eyebrow, bends one knee so that she’s closer to Katya’s height. She’s giving Katya a hum to elaborate as she does so, leans against the rail that’s probably not stable enough to hold up her sloped hips and thick thighs.    
  
“They're all so polished and glamorous and I'm so, _not_ , y'know?”. Katya phrases her words more carefully than Trixie thinks she’s ever heard her do before. They’re controlled, refined. Embellished to the extent that Trixie isn’t sure whether she’s speaking to Katya or _Katya_.   
  
“ _You_? Not glamorous?”. Scorns Trixie, albeit facetiously and jokingly. Katya’s grinning along with her, until she’s leaning on the rail too and Trixie is positive that it can’t hold the weight of both of them, is going to collapse and send them tumbling to the floor in a pile of limbs and curse words   
  
“I know right, hard to believe”.

Katya laughs airily once again, motions towards her outfit of shorts and grey tshirt where Trixie notices the stains for a second, or maybe it’s the third time. Either way, she notices them, doesn’t find it hard to believe that Katya doesn’t think of herself as glamorous when she looks like the depiction of disorganisation most of the time.

“Plus I'm literally almost ten years older than most of them-”. Katya quits, shakes her head to herself, grasps unwittingly ahold of Trixie’s hand that’s floating between their bodies until she can feel the rhythm of the girls pulse through the shirt and skirt that Trixie’s still holding. 

It keeps her grounded, _briefly_.

“-God, I could only wish to have my life as together as they do by eighteen”. The thought feels existential, and Katya doesn’t want to dwell on it too much with Trixie smiling gleefully down towards her, her soft thumb taking it upon itself to stroke across her rigid knuckles.

It shouldn’t be allowed, Katya thinks, to have fingers that soft when you play guitar for a living, strum and pluck the strings so fiercely that sometimes you end up with jagged cuts under your nails that sting every time they’re submerged in water, touched to subtle fabric. 

But Trixie’s still smiling at her, wondering why Katya hasn’t ripped her hand out of her grip, stepped away from her being. Trixie probably would have, she acknowledges, legged it out of the room on unconfident legs and crippled knees until she was in her safe haven of a tour bus bedroom.

She smiles regardless, keeps ahold of Katya’s arm where she’s now holding it even tighter, irritating clothing caught between their partial embrace.  

“You have more positive energy than _all_ of them put together, don’t sweat it”. She reassures, inhales the familiar scent of Jasmine and honeysuckle that’s permeating her nostrils, travelling from Katya’s skin and into her senses.     


“There’s just not a lot of common interests”. Confirms Katya, looks down towards her own hands that are still interlinked with Trixie’s.

Trixie nods understandingly, mumbles an _I get it_ because she _does_ get it. She knows how she herself doesn’t quite fit in with people that age anymore. She’s twenty five, and she doesn’t have time for their nonchalant attitude and self righteous entitlement that has seemingly grown, stemmed from nowhere.

She drops Katya’s hands wordlessly, stuffs the outfit that she’s confident with into her bag ready for the following night, or the one after that; she can’t remember. She closes her suitcase too, zips it effortlessly and elongates the handle so that it’s ready to be dragged out of the room, onto the tour bus that’s simultaneously her most favourite and least favourite thing to exist. 

“If you ever get bored of them-”. Begins Trixie tentatively, heart in her throat making her choke. “-You know you can come and join my bus, right? I'm sure Michelle wouldn't mind-”. She halts to gauge Katya’s reaction, but the elder girl is simply staring at her blankly, _unaffected_. 

“-In fact I think she'd like it. I think she likes _you_ more than she likes _me_ ”. Pouts Trixie, and it’s only when Katya laughs, smiles appreciatively, that she stops.

“Are you serious about that?”. Katya attempts not to appear dumbfounded, but she is, and she’s never been good at hiding things, has never mastered the art of white lies as well as some, as well as Trixie has.

Trixie’s nodding quickly, slinging her bag over her shoulder and wrapping her fingers tightly around the handle of her suitcase whilst Katya stands still, watches her own hands fidget with the material of her god awful patterned shorts.    
  
“Grab your bag and we'll go”. 

“What? Now?”. Katya’s blinking rapidly and it’s all too much and too fast for her to comprehend, so she outstretches her arm, grips the countertop until her knuckles are turning bone white. Trixie’s still looking unfazed, however, is taking three, four steps forward until she’s standing opposite a trembling Katya once again.    
  
“I think we've chosen the best outfits, everything's packed, there's no reason not to”. Trixie shruggs her shoulders, motions towards the door to the room that’s visible to Katya just over her right shoulder.   
  
“Is Trixie Mattel inviting me to her tour bus?”. Tries Katya, her mouth dry and coarse and her voice a shaky vibrato. She smiles tentatively, too, uncertainty wracking her core. The implications are invisible momentarily as Trixie licks innocently at her top lip, sees Katya’s eyes following the trail.

“Trixie Mattel is kindly asking you to, yeah-”. She clears her throat. “-I have five box sets and endless snacks and would kinda’ _love_ some company”.

*****

The night looks promising, suddenly, with an attractive blonde who happens to be hilarious allowing her to drape her body across her, wrap their limbs together under silky cotton sheets.    
  
Trixie could think of worse situations, mainly where she'd be alone, drowning in isolation - but she's not, and the shallow beat of Katya's heart against her ear is concrete proof of that as she drifts off into a more peaceful slumber than she's felt in months.    
  
It's comfortable.    
  
_Trixie likes that, too._   
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katya sighs, looks up towards Trixie from under her heavy eyelashes that are layered thick with mascara. Trixie looks more human that Katya thinks she’s ever seen her look in the warm, yellow lighting. Her freckles are prominent, overwhelmingly so, as are the couple of chickenpox scars that are littered atop her cheekbones from when she was five years old.
> 
> It makes Katya smile. She can see the blonde of Trixie’s eyelashes peaking through the tint of black that’s appeared from all of the mascara throughout the years. They glow, almost, along with the purple veins that are visible through the paper skin of her eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first i just want to say thank you so much for all of your lovely comments on this fic!! it's so different for me but it's my baby and i love it a lot - second, ok so listen, i promise something significant will actually happen between both of them at some point during this fic (aka next chapter!!) but until then we have some more character developing to do, so,, i hope you enjoy!♡

Elation strikes Trixie when they reach the southern leg of the tour, naturally.  
  
There are fields and flowers and trees and farms surrounding her from every direction; north, south, east, west. _Everywhere_.  
  
Cities of lights and billboards are located few and far between, and if she tries hard enough she can almost taste the overly greasy fried food that gets served in cheap, sixty year old diners that remind her of childhood, youth.  
  
She knows they’re out there, but sees only one - _cheery-oh_ \- during the whole time she spends gazing longingly out of the windows of her tour bus. The sight makes her heart clench, because she knows she can’t be more than thirty, forty five minutes from home even with the driver shouting down the length of the bus corridor that they’d be arriving at the next venue within the hour.  
  
_Home_.  
  
It’s a foreign word to Trixie when she’s on the road. Home is wherever her head lands on a pillow at night, or midday. Wherever she stores herself and her floral engraved guitar until she can tune it again, strum in on stage into an amplifier and a crowd of thousands of awaiting ears.  
  
Her mom and her brother are less than an hour away, though, and she knows she’s closer to home than any airplane or taxi cab could ever take her and her luggage. She practically _is_ home.  
  
It’s only crushing because they can’t make it to the show to see her, and she can’t make it to see them before she has to leave to begin the next leg of her tour, and Trixie curses out the oppression of time momentarily.  
  
She needs seventy hours in a day and fifteen days in a week to feel on track again, to draw out a new schedule and stick to it accordingly. Four legs, she thinks, would be sufficient enough in order to get her where she needs to be, and eleven arms in order to slice the time she takes doing hair, makeup, clothing, in half.  
  
Or quartered.  
  
But the green grass still surrounds her, and fields of barley and rye are all she can spot for miles upon miles despite knowing that the nearest city is looming.  
  
Leaves bustling through the air remind her of the sweetness of voices; _Dolly_ and _Loretta_ and - _Wells_. It’s why she started making music in the first place. Music written by a woman and for women, because _It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels_ and Trixie likes to remember that, still, with her puckered rose petal lips and coiffed blonde hair that staggers towards the heavens.  
  
It’s empowering, Trixie notes, to stand and perform in a familiar town that kisses at her scars and at her nerves until she really is home in the unfathomable embrace of five thousand strangers.  
  
She feels like she’s floating, as cliché as she knows the expression is. She’s floating. A hot air balloon free from sandbags, the flame within is high and ignited so that she can’t come down even if she wants to and it’s a good job because she doesn’t.  
  
She’s stepping off of the stage with a spring in her step, light feet and weightless shoulders that she stretches, pulls taught until they release euphorically.  
  
A pleasurable groan leaves her lips, and Michelle is trapping her with her arms that are clothed in a faux fur shawl that’s soft, tickling Trixie’s nose. She’s congratulating her, _good jobs_ , and _amazing’s_ that Trixie doesn’t necessarily need with the buzz that’s running through her veins.  
  
Adrenaline races. It wins, dwindles just past the finish line when it’s no longer required to pump as quickly, defeat everything in its path.  
  
Trixie finds the analogy laughable, and sighs as she opens the door to her dressing room.  
  
She wants to savour the moment. Wishes to capture it in a butterfly net, house it in a mason jar until she knows she’s stable enough again to relive it.  
  
Trixie knows that she will be, but not now, because she’s crashing.  
  
_Plummeting_.  
  
The sandbags are back, and she’s staring at herself intensely in the mirror. Her reflection is a myth, and the flame has been extinguished by grey clouds opening and leaking salty tears onto each flicker, each life. A pin is stabbing through the balloon as a scissors snipe away too, until the entirety of the structure is collapsing, destroying itself.  
  
It’s destructive, and Trixie wants to allow it to continue to happen, can’t bring herself to patch up the fabric and throw the sandbags back down to the ground where they’d spill open.  
  
So she does, sinks back into the chair that for once isn’t a flimsy directors style one, she acknowledges, until her eyes are puffed red, bottom lip trembling.  
  
She continues, until her teeth are drawing blood from the inside of her cheek and she’s reaching for her bag and the miniature orange bottle that lies inside at the same time that the door to her dressing room clicks open, slams against the opposite wall as it does so. Trixie jumps frightfully, clutches her chest with heaving breaths that she’s lost track of.  
  
“ _Trixie_! You rocked that one tonight-“. It’s Katya.  
  
Trixie knows it is even with her bleary, tear streaked vision and muffled hearing from the bass of the speakers. She’s bounding over excitedly, dodging items of clothing and weaving her way in between items of furniture until she’s stood behind Trixie.  
  
“Trixie?”. Her voice is lower the second time around. More timid, quieter and considerate. Trixie knows that the elder blonde isn’t obtuse, is far from it in actuality with her untameable thirst for knowledge that has continued to surprise her.  
  
It makes her halt her movements, set down her bag in order to wipe at her eyes. Mascara stains her hands, knuckles, fingertips, as does her rosy nude lipstick. They lie when they say _twenty four hour wear_ , she scoffs.  
  
She makes eye contact with Katya through the dusty mirror, sniffs and shakes her head when she observes the girl looking at her with curious eyes.  
  
“Don’t ya’ think it went well?”. Tries Katya, and Trixie wants to kick her for not being telepathic and instantly understanding Trixie’s emotions. She wants to kiss her for the way her eyes soften, too, when she places a hand upon Trixie shoulder, squeezes and rubs soothingly until Trixie can utter out a mangled response.  
  
“It went really well”. She whimpers, buries her head in her hands, elbows digging into her thighs. Katya still looks puzzled, and Trixie can’t blame her for it when her other hand is coming up to rub at Trixie other shoulder relaxingly.  
  
“But I’m guessing they’re not happy tears?”. Simpers Katya, to which Trixie responds with a singular shake of her head and a sob that wracks her whole body, from head to ribs to toes.  
  
Katya begins running her fingers through Trixie’s untamed strands, and Trixie winces when the darker blondes ring gets caught in an atrocious knot that’s formed without her consent. Her fingers are running across Trixie’s scalp, and the younger of the two is reclining into the touch when Katya gathers Trixie’s hair at the nape of her neck, ties it loosely into a low ponytail.  
  
Trixie’s grateful, she feels suffocated in her own skin, her hair having been wrapped around her akin to a blanket or a hood. She’s glad to get it out of her way, with Katya’s fingers returning to digging slow circles into the joints of her shoulders and neck.  
  
She clears her throat.  
  
It feels scratchy, burns in a way that she doesn’t want it to, that’s reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard or a fork catching on the gloss of a china plate. Any other sensation would make her happier, be it swallowing scorching gulps of freshly brewed coffee or gliding a flame past her tonsils, through her voice box.  
  
The feeling doesn’t quell, and she either needs it to stop completely or make it worse, so that it hurts more and she’s left in turn with nothing but a low rumble for a voice and razor blades on the roof of her mouth.  
  
Trixie knows what option she prefers, spots her bag balanced precariously on the counter top where she’d discarded it moments prior.  
  
_Yes_.  
  
Leaning forward, Trixie continues shuffling though the offending bag; makeup wipes, mints, receipts, _pills_. The sight of the small orange bottle makes her sigh in relief, despite Katya’s persistent gaze piercing through the back of her head.  
  
She opens the bottle, shakes them first out of habit, empties two, or maybe it’s five into the palm of her hand and swallows them dry. The scrape is intoxicating, the cough that follows a gentle reminder of the numbness that would arrive soon, cleanse her mind.  
  
“Can you take that many?”. Katya’s voice is quiet, laced with concern, and Trixie would find it endearing if she wasn’t head set on getting rid of the pounding headache that had settled in the forefront of her temples. She’d almost forgotten about Katya’s presence.  
  
Trixie’s shrugging slowly. She can feel her legs cramping and knows she needs to stand up to avoid painstaking pins and needles forming but she sits regardless, watches Katya pick up the bottle of pills that are almost half empty and twist it between her fingers.  
  
“They’re just for migraines”. Exhales Trixie, disappointment clouding her judgement as Katya retracts her hands, moves so that she’s standing to the side of Trixie where they’re able to make prolonged eye contact; not through the mirror that’s seen better days.  
  
“Trix-“.  
  
Trixie shakes her head rapidly, avoids the assaulting glare of Katya’s threatening eyes that are glowering at her as if she knows, as if she understands.  
  
She thinks that Katya probably does understand, but she doesn’t want to believe that. Not with Katya’s strong fingers wrapping themselves around her wrist that feels lethargic and boneless.  
  
“Stop looking at me like that”. Whispers Trixie, and she knows she sounds similar to Michelle after she’s sat on the steps of the tour bus for a while, has chain smoked a whole pack of cigarettes - menthol ones, because she still _swears_ she’s trying to quit.  
  
Trixie _admires_ it, really.  
  
Katya’s brows are furrowing, and from how close they’re standing Trixie can see the faint lines that have begun forming permanently on Katya’s forehead.  
  
“Like what?” Katya’s perplexed, and Trixie almost wishes she’d never said anything. She’s not fond of tentative Katya, prefers the one that’s confident, self sure and assertive to the extent that she even manages to bowl Trixie over on occasions.  
  
Twisting her wrist in Katya’s grasp, she allows their palms to press flat, flush against one and other. Katya’s skin is dry, albeit soft. It’s dry, and Trixie wants to reach in to her bag for her moisturiser, rub some delicately into Katya’s hands until they match the woman that they’re attached to.  
  
“Like you _know_ -“. Settles Trixie, though she thinks she could have phrased it better. “-You don’t. Michelle does it to me all the time and-“.  
  
Trixie’s behaviour is borderline bratish. She knows that, and Katya has acknowledged it too, let’s her act however she desires when there are streams of tears cascading down her cheeks, dripping off of her chin in a tap like manner.  
  
“But-“. Katya interjects, only for Trixie to disregard her entirely. Trixie retracts her hand forcefully, and Katya’s left stuffing her now free hand into the pocket of her pants awkwardly because she’s not Michelle.  
  
She wants to tell Trixie how she gets it. She does, probably more than Michelle could attempt because she’s been there, too. She won’t tell Trixie that, wouldn’t dream of doing so yet but she casts her a fleeting glance filled with hope; _reliability_.  
  
Trixie might be able to grapple on to it. A hook pulling her up from crumbling cliffs and rock faces that cut at her knees and elbows with ever movement. The likelihood is slim, Katya notes, but it’s there.  
  
“It’s none of your concern”. Snaps Trixie, turns away from Katya and proceeds to gather her items briskly off of the countertop and throw them into her bag. It’s packed within seconds, and Katya takes a step back to allow her to stand up from the chair with her heels still on her feet.  
  
She’s towering over Katya.  
  
“Just-“. Katya holds up her hands, as if the force that permeates from them will stop Trixie from barging past her, out of the dressing room and into the barley lit corridor.  
  
It doesn’t, admittedly, but it holds her momentarily. Leaves the bleach blonde standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, switching from one foot to the other.  
  
Katya sighs, looks up towards Trixie from under her heavy eyelashes that are layered thick with mascara. Trixie looks more human that Katya thinks she’s ever seen her look in the warm, yellow lighting. Her freckles are prominent, overwhelmingly so, as are the couple of chickenpox scars that are littered atop her cheekbones from when she was five years old.  
  
It makes Katya smile. She can see the blonde of Trixie’s eyelashes peaking through the tint of black that’s appeared from all of the mascara throughout the years. They glow, almost, along with the purple veins that are visible through the paper skin of her eyelids.  
  
Katya takes a step forward.  
  
“-Just, tell me how you’re feeling, like right now, and I’ll go, I swear”. _I’ll leave you alone_ , is what she means.  
  
Gritting her teeth, Trixie straightens her back, increases the distance between herself an Katya even further so that the elder girl feels inadequate, inferior.  
  
Trixie then kisses at her teeth, leaves behind traces of Vaseline from her lips so that they don’t stick and rolls her eyes. She’s holding back tears that are still threatening to spill further, and Katya’s aware of that as she takes a step back again, leaves Trixie missing the warmth that reverberated off of her body.  
  
“ _Homesick_ -”. She seethes, wraps her tongue around each vowel aggressively. Her eyes are burning into Katya’s, tortuously painful and excruciating.  
  
“-I feel awful knowing that my mom is like, _half_ an hour away, and there’s nothing that can be done about that ‘cause tomorrow we’ll be in a different _fucking_ state and-“.  
  
Katya spins on her heel, turns to face the door that’s clicking open. Michelle’s there with them, peering her head around the corner and blinking rapidly as she takes in the sight of a disheveled Trixie and concerned Katya. Her brows furrow as rapidly as Katya’s had, through granted her skin has weathered and withered more than the blondes; she has fifteen years more life over her.  
  
_Experience_.  
  
Turning her back, Trixie wipes beneath her eyes in the mirror, fogs up the glass with her breath that’s exiting her body in short, staccato beats.  
  
“Are you ladies alright in here?”. Michelle traipses across the room, around the same items of clothing that Katya had to avoid until she’s standing at Trixie’s side, hands resting flat on the counter top below.  
  
Trixie grunts, picks up her bag that knocks the wind from her lungs. Katya’s still standing, almost dumbfounded, as is Michelle. They watch Trixie as she pulls the hair time from her hair that Katya had carefully tied, shakes the golden strands loose so that she can scrape them back harder into a bun on the top of her crown that pulls on her skin.  
  
She likes the pain, likes undoing Katya’s work to a feel a little more in control.  
  
“We’re fine”. Asserts Trixie. She gives Katya a passing observation that’s more of an unfriendly glare than anything, slumps over to the couch in the corner of the room where she throws herself down, curls up as best she can in the corner.  
  
Katya guesses Michelle’s learnt over the years not to argue, not to press Trixie when she’s in one of those moods that Katya’s more than well aquatinted with. They’re not stupid, like she once thought. They’re valid. All of Trixie’s feelings are valid.  
  
Trixie’s bag is on her lap, overflowing with items, but Katya doubts she cares. With Trixie’s cheeks puffy and rosy, and her top lip quivering, Katya turns towards Michelle.  
  
“I’ve ‘gotta go-“. She hurries, zipping up her jacket. “-I’ll be back on the bus in like, forty five”.  
  
Trixie looks distraught, blinks up towards Katya pitifully as she overhears the words spoken to Michelle. The last thing Trixie wants is for Katya to leave, but she does, the final thing she witnesses before rounding the corner being Michelle entering mother mode, wrapping Trixie in a caring embrace.  
  
She sobs into the dark haired woman’s shoulder, breathes in the perfume that’s not Katya’s perfume. It’s musky, black, not sweet honey and Jasmine.  
  
Her hair is softer than Katya’s, not as ladened with products or as chemically damaged. Trixie guesses she _likes_ damaged, it’s something she understands better than most other things, including how she’s quickly grown to count Katya as her favourite person on the tour.  
  
Michelle is more of a manager than a friend, she thinks, and her band mates are all rugged country males that aren’t as gleeful as Katya is. Neither as energetic or as personable.  
  
She has other friends. She knows that she does, like Kim and Shea up north in Chicago. But they’re not there with her, and Katya is, so she wants to rest her head on the blondes shoulder; drift off to sleep in a cloud of cigarette smoke with the feeling of Katya’s nylon shorts brushing against her thighs.  
  
The thought settles her, and she feels the tears coming to an unexpected stop, Michelle’s hand rubbing at her back.  
  
*****  
  
Guilt washes over the shores of Katya’s being when she leaves Trixie in her dressing room, crying with Michelle’s arms circling her.  
  
It feels inhumane to do so; practically abandon a homesick individual who’s so much more than a homesick individual, sobbing on a worn out couch.  
  
But she has a reason, and Katya’s not even entirely sure if it’ll work when she picks up what she requires from the shady twenty four hour convenience store that’s a twenty minute walk from the venue, places it delicately in her bag in order to return to Trixie.  
  
The thought had stemmed from a conversation they’d shared weeks ago, Trixie mentioning her love for her grandmothers apple cinnamon pie that her mom had learnt to make just because Trixie loved it so much. She’d spoken about how she could never find anything like it on the road, apart from in convenience stores that she would never go in because of the stereotypical sleazy men that would always serve her, stand being the counter ogling at her cleavage.  
  
Katya had laughed, brushed it off because _why did she need to know that?_  
  
Katya wants to kick her past self for not listening more intently, because it had left her debating with herself for upwards of five minutes in a dead beat store in a dreary corner of the town whether Trixie preferred puff or short crust pastry.  
  
She buys both, because it’s hits her then much like it’s pelted her before; if she’s able to make Trixie happy, is able to wipe away her tears and replace them with elated smiles then she will. She’s Trixie and she deserves it, Katya tells herself.  
  
_Yeah_.  
  
Her estimation was forty five minutes, but she makes it back after fifty, hopping up the steep stairs to the tour bus with renewed vigour. It seems quiet. Too quiet, with an absence of both Michelle and the band that boggles Katya’s mind.  
  
They’re always in the lounge area of the bus, before and after every show, discussing set lists and new beverages that they just need to try.  
  
Setting down her bag, Katya pads towards the back of the bus. The two slices of pie are in her hands, boxed, as she opens the wooden door followed by the mesh curtain that lead to Trixie’s private and secluded area. The blonde is there, typing away slowly on her phone as if she never intends to finish the message, click send with shaking thumbs.  
  
“ _Hey_ ”. Trixie’s ears peak up, and she’s looking over at Katya with bloodshot eyes and sticky cheeks from the tears that have seemingly long ceased.  
  
She smiles cautiously, as if she doesn’t know how Katya will react to her after having bolted away from her less than an hour ago, out of the venue to who knows where. Katya smiles back effortlessly, slides onto the bed next to Trixie where her back can rest comfortably against the headboard.  
  
It’s a nice feeling, to recline against something solid after dancing all night and walking for over three quarters of an hour in shoes that were too tight and shorts that left her legs bare to the cold night air. She allows a sigh to escape her lips, presents the box with the pies enclosed to Trixie, places them on her lap.  
  
Frowning, Trixie frees her hands from the confines of the duvet that she’s bundled up under, opens the box with deft fingers.  
  
“So-“. Katya begins, dragging out the monosyllabic word. She shuffles closer to Trixie, until their shoulders are pressed against each other’s. “-I know it’s not your moms, and it’s probably not even close, but I though that it’d be, y’know, _nice_?”.  
  
Katya’s blushing beneath her thick foundation, worries that Trixie can see it even though she knows that it’s not moving until she takes a makeup wipe to her skin. She watches intensely, gauges Trixie’s reaction whilst nibbling at her plump bottom lip.  
  
She opens the box, and it’s instantaneous, _almost_ , the way her mouth parts to give way to a grin that shows her whitened crooked teeth and her eyes light up in joy.  
  
Dropping her head to Katya’s shoulder, she mumbles unintelligibly, to which Katya chuckles.  
  
She doesn’t know what Trixie has said, and she asks her to repeat herself but she _doesn’t care_. She can tell Trixie’s happy, shocked at Katya’s seeming attentiveness and memory seeing as Trixie herself can _barely_ remember the conversation that took place well into the early hours of the morning, under the influence of upwards of four shared joints.  
  
“You didn’t have to, _god_ ”. Trixie exhales, lifts the corner of the covers for Katya to slip under them with her. Katya’s feet are cold when she kicks her shoes off, but they quickly warm up amongst fleecy blankets and against Trixie’s heated shins.  
  
“Not god, but close enough”. Jokes Katya, nudging Trixie as she begins to pick at one slice of pie.  
  
Shortcrust, Katya notes. _Shortcrust_.  
  
Trixie rolls her eyes fondly, leans further into Katya’s side whilst eating the pie. She does so slowly, savours each mouthful until she’s full, sated, and is able to listen contentedly to Katya’s rambles until sleep threatens to drag her under.  
  
*****  
  
Makeup is removed on Katya’s behalf somewhere between midnight and the following hour. She tip-toes around the small room, locates her makeup wipes and removes the layers of foundation, eyeshadow and eyeliner with Trixie watching her throughout.  
  
It’s peaceful, when she slips back into the bed, Trixie’s ankles instantly interlinking with her own. The soft curves of her waist are snug against Katya’s bony hips, and Katya can feel her warm, cinnamon breath puffing against her shoulder whenever Trixie breathes, speaks.  
  
“Is Katya a Russian name?”.  
  
Blurts Trixie, so that Katya’s looking down at her quizzically, almost as if she’s periodically insane. Katya purses her lips, turns her head so that her chin rests briefly on top of Trixie’s hair that’s now free from a hair tie, swept to the side into a singular loose braid.  
  
“Why do you ask that?”. Murmurs Katya, makes Trixie look up towards her. Katya can see her pores from how close she is, and the light shine that her natural skin takes on when she doesn’t wear makeup.  
  
She wants to reach out, press the pads of her fingers to Trixie’s under-eyes where they’re darker than they usually are due to exhaustion and emotions. But she can’t, and she knows that, so she settles for looping her arm around Trixie’s waist, watches as the younger girls eyes widen in surprise.  
  
Trixie searches for her words, hooks her thigh across Katya’s when the possibly Russian possibly not girl shifts down the bed so that she’s eye level with Trixie. Both of their heads rest on the same pillow, closely.  
  
“I watched a documentary the other night-“. Trixie breaths, and then Katya can smell the cinnamon on her breath as well as feel it.  
  
_Intoxicating_.  
  
“-they were in a Russian prison and there were like, _five_ Katya’s”. Finishes Trixie. She’s giggling to herself, and she’s so in Katya’s space that she’s going cross eyed again, the lack of contacts not helping her eyesight.  
  
It’s somewhere between adorable and endearing, Katya decides, realises she likes the Trixie behind the Trixie Mattel more than she ever initially thought she would. She’s goofy, crazily so, yet manages to reign in Katya’s wild tangents every so often.  
  
“That’s funny-“. Katya wheezes. “-But no, I’m from Boston”.  
  
Trixie kicks herself. She knew that, of course she did. Michelle had told her on numerous occasions when they had been discussing home towns or cities that they’d like to visit. Live in, possibly. Trixie blames the lack of sleep, can feel how heavy her eyelids are getting.  
  
“Is that where the funny 'lil accent comes from?”. Slurs Trixie, her brain not computing her thoughts as quickly as she needs it to. Her tongue is a rock in her mouth, a weight that’s a chore to move. She wants to throw it away, watch it skim across a pond.  
  
Katya blinks once.  
  
“Funny 'lil accent?”. She laughs, questioning Trixie. Trixie nods her head slowly, smiles so that her cheeks puff out and her dimples become prominent. She hums then, pokes at Katya’s shoulder teasingly until the not Russian is laughing, pulling Trixie closer.  
  
“Have you heard yourself?-“. Katya jibes, arching a sculpted eyebrow. “-Southern bitch”. She comments, leaving Trixie to roll her eyes once again and chuckle affirmatively.  
  
“I’m a country singer god damn it”. It’s a joke, and Katya knows it is when Trixie’s teeth are on show again, digging in to her lip that’s stained pink from countless shades of lipstick.  
  
But her eyes are drooping none the less, and Trixie knows that she’s on the verge of falling to sleep with her body intertwined with Katya’s, the darker blondes body solid against her own.  
  
Katya knows this, too, tells Trixie to _shut up_ and _go to sleep_ in the lightest, most harmless tone she can muster. She succeeds, she thinks, when Trixie nods her head and detangles her legs from Katya’s in preparation to roll over, so that her back would be to the other girl.  
  
Katya misses the softness immediately, places a gentle sloppy kiss to Trixie’s cheek that catches the corner of Trixie’s mouth.  
  
Both pause.  
  
Trixie’s skin is just as smooth as Katya knew it would be, be it under the skin of her fingers or her lips or _anywhere_. She wants to do it again, and only refrains from doing so because Trixie’s already rolling over with a blush tinting the apples of her cheeks and a hand grasping Katya’s that’s still wrapped around her waist. Trixie’s content.  
  
“Sleep, doll”.  
  
Trixie remembers to hum her own goodnight, her nose pressed into the soft pillow beneath her head. Katya’s chest is warm against her back, as is the hand that’s worked it’s way under Trixie’s sleep shirt and onto the soft slope of her stomach.  
  
Trixie feels grounded, and doesn’t mind that she’ll be waking up in a completely different state the next morning because _yes_ , she reaffirms, home is wherever she lays her head at night, really.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgetting her own lyrics and busting up her guitar all in the space one night has made Trixie delirious, so she bids her semi-grateful goodbyes to the crowd and hurries upset, distraught to her dressing room.
> 
> It’s not the show she wanted to deliver, but Katya’s there, in her dressing room, on the black suede couch waiting for her and it fills Trixie with something that she can’t pin point.
> 
> Something warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i now need a hug and a cold shower,, but with that said,, i hope you enjoy??♡
> 
> (also would just like to say another huge thank you to you guys for all of your support for this fic! it means everything!!)

Things boil over two weeks into the eastern leg of the _Honey_ tour.

Like a pot on a stove, trixie finds herself flowing onto the flames of the hob, emotions fizzling out as they burn. The timing is far from ideal, too. She only has a month left of the tour and after that she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but the idea of nothingness, doing little, is comforting.

The idea settles her nerves before and after performances, when she’s either stressed over being in a city that she’s unacquainted with or picking at every minute detail of a song that she doesn’t feel that she’s sung to the best of her abilities that she knows she has within.

Frustration hits when she knows she’s only just scratched the surface, the top layer of paint on a brick wall, of what she’s able to achieve. When necessary, she can hit the lowest vibratos and the most elevated of falsettos with few connecting words between them.

It impresses people, leaves them with mouths agape and goosebumps across arms and shoulders, that in turn causes the hairs on the backs of their necks to stand to attention.

But sometimes she stops, parks herself on a crumbling cliffs edge somewhere between the basics of alto and soprano. Because despite being confident in her craft, she’s not a complete idiot as some think, and she knows that things can go wrong; will go wrong.

It’s strange, when it happens.

It’s _strange_ , because Trixie’s in a good mood. She mostly always is, when she’s performing, doing what she loves. Fans sing along blissfully to one of her oldest songs; _Bluegrass_ , that’s still a fabrication of her. Of Trixie, daughter, country singer, lover - _sometimes_.

Two verses pass in a blur. Her hands hurt from playing her guitar that’s just be restrung but that’s ok because she likes it.

Complaining isn’t an option, she thinks, when she’s selling out venues in cities across the country and playing to crowds who legitimately enjoy her music. Most want to be there, compared to the attendees of some of her first small gigs ten, or maybe it’s longer than that at this point, years ago.

She doesn’t get heckled much anymore, with the exception of some voracious fans who simply need to hear their favourite song of hers. Either way, it’s better than filthy farmers and ravenous truckers yelling at her to _get your tits out or get off of the stage_ when she’d been merely fifteen or sixteen, trying to make a buck or two whilst doing what she loved.

Trixie’s seen the bad side of things, and that’s why she feels more contented and pleased with her career than she ever deemed possible. It’s something akin to a dream, that pays her bills, which is more than a bonus, she guesses.

Three verses in and she’s feeling good. Her voice is sounding elegantly mature, something she attributes to never smoking or drinking before a show anymore, and her hair is clipped firmly out of her face meaning she can observe the nameless faces in the crowd as she pleases.

Lyrics flow from her lips as if they’re engrained into her memory -

 _There's a saying where I come from_  
_Playing 'round with fire gets you burned_  
_Well, I'll wear my third degrees_  
_And my heart_ -

But they aren’t. Final lines leave her mind in gusts of wind and tornados until they’re being carried away over seas, becoming tropical storms. She’s stuttering, muttering our apologies until she can pick up again on the final chorus that she’s not confident she knows anymore.

She’s kicking herself, cursing her memory and calling out her own lack of attention and carelessness. Once she finishes the song she can leave the stage, and it’s a good job because she can’t fathom having to perform another, or even strum one more chord on the guitar that she wants to throw to the ground, smash and scatter into tiny shards.

Faces in the crowd fall. They’re disappointed, and trixie gets it because so is she. She’s ashamed of the way her mentality is handling the entirety of the situation and the way her voice continues to belt as if nothing has happened.

Except she knows it has, and she’s aware that Michelle is going to lecture her about not getting too confident and arrogant as soon as she sets foot into her dressing room. She would’ve agreed at one point, but Trixie’s worked hard, she knows she has over the past month or so, to avoid the inflation of her ego and her arise of blasé attitude.

There’s little she could have done to prevent it, because sometimes things happen, she tells herself. Unavoidable things that shouldn’t exist but do, in every realm, regardless of situations and hard work.

She’s shaking.  
  
Phones and cameras are pointed in her general direction, ignoring her band members that she still believes deserve more recognition even if they’re not the people she would’ve chosen to play along side her, initially.

Trixie wanted a tour of _women_. Innovators. Creative individuals that could play for a stadium or a bar any day of the week, without some blonde country singer standing feet in front of them. She wanted people who didn’t conform, who refused labels and kept their boxes unlocked, visions open.

Categorisation has never been something that Trixie’s been fond of, but she puts it aside briefly for the rugged men who play the drums, slave over bass guitars and keyboards for her every night.

They’re _good_ , and she knows that they are. Better than she is currently, with her eyes focusing on the flashes of lights emanating from aforementioned cameras and phones that leave white spots in her eye sight.

She wraps it up quickly, applauds the audience because they’re the ones that deserve it, not her, as she comes to terms with the fact that all of her social media’s are about to be blown up, erupt into a volcanic mess.

The fans will talk, spread the information across different platforms worse than any journalist or paparazzi ever could. They can be ruthless. Vultures that drain every drop of blood from her body and mind until she’s a compliant corpse. It’ll be like that when she slinks onto the tour bus, buries herself under blankets in order to read the comments that will pile in both thick and fast.

She sets her guitar down.

The weight is heavy on the embroidered leather strap that keeps it elevated, wrapped across her shoulders and back. Her joints are stiff, aching, but her ears tune in closely to the sound the wooded instrument makes as it comes in contact with the vinyl stage. It’s a _click_ , or more of a _clank_ , but either way she knows she’s damaged it somehow.

It’s fragile, and most nights it can barely survive the scratch of Trixie’s nails across its surface let alone being dropped from a foot in the air to the ground.

The bottom corner is dented. She can see the fracture line forming as the top layer of varnished hand painted flowers is peeling away in flakes. She’s still kicking herself, is ready to throw her guitar to the nearest corner as soon as she steps off of the stage because she doesn’t care anymore.

She’s going to get slated by bloggers and websites and news papers and god, Trixie’s beyond caring about it. Or about anything that has to do with the horrendous mood that’s settled around her like a dust cloud, particles reflecting in the light as her head spins reflexively.

Forgetting her own lyrics and busting up her guitar all in the space one night has made Trixie delirious, so she bids her semi-grateful goodbyes to the crowd and hurries upset, distraught to her dressing room.

It’s not the show she wanted to deliver, but Katya’s there, in her dressing room, on the black suede couch waiting for her and it fills Trixie with something that she can’t pin point.

Something _warm_.

“Trix?”. Ocean ladened orbs flicker up towards Trixie, and the darker blonde is dumbfounded.

Katya’s seen Trixie sad on many occasions.

Has seen her upset when she’s had to cancel a show because she’d lost her voice, gotten sick. When the doctors had told her she couldn’t perform, couldn’t risk harming her vocal chords. She’s seen her when she couldn’t finish a song that she’d been working on for months, too; _Make Up Your Mind_ , and it had driven her insane to the brink of disorientation and disassociation.

She’s even seen her when she’s been homesick, which is the state of mind Katya hates seeing Trixie in the most, because she knows that there’s nothing much she can do to ease the feeling that swells in her heart and chokes her throat. It’s not possible to drag Trixie’s home town to her, surround her with the comforts that could only come from the small country town that’s unheard of, to most.

Yet she’s never seen Trixie _break_. Not where she’s both angry and upset at the same time, crying and trembling and whimpering.

Trixie’s shaking her head, the tears that had been threatening to spill at one point already racing against each other down her cheeks. They leave streaks in her blusher and her bronzer, and she wants to scrape her nails through the makeup that’s clogging her pores, trapping her.

Katya’s still watching her. She observes as Trixie, a china tea cup, throws herself to the floor until she’s shattering, skidding across tiled floors. She knows that Trixie will superglue herself back together, gather up each piece until her hands are bleeding and pierced with fine flecks of sharp porcelain.

She’s far from the overly confident and arrogant individual that Katya was acquainted with the first once, or twice, or three times that they had interacted. She’s Trixie, and she’s vulnerable and fragile but heaven be damned if she isn’t the most determined and consistently impassioned person Katya has ever come across.

So Katya stands up, takes her in her arms and strokes at the golden hairspray coated hair that falls in bouncy curls down Trixie’s back.

Trixie cries into her shoulder when they’re sat back down on the couch, springs sticking irritatingly into their thighs. Her ribs vibrate against the splay of Katya’s hands that are pulling her closer, squeezing Trixie tightly so that she knows that Katya’s still there.

 _Presence_.

Her legs are folded underneath her, crossed and contorted so that Katya’s petite frame manages to cocoon her enough in order to feel small, protected. Gone are the intimidating eyes of fans, people who expect her to always be on top of her game; _perfection_. Instead she’s met with Katya’s gaze that’s soft, reassuring and encouraging.

“I fucked up”. Trixie mumbles, sobs into the palm of her hand. Katya’s shaking her head rapidly, pulling Trixie’s hand away from her mouth and linking their fingers unceremoniously together.

She notices how Trixie’s lipstick is smudged. It’s on her cheek and her chin, and Katya can see where the natural pink of her lips is peaking through the overly bright, almost neon colour that she’s wearing. She wants to wipe it away, allow Trixie’s face to breathe in the warm and stuffy room, but she refrains, continues stroking her thumb across Trixie’s knuckles.

“Hey, it can’t have been _that_ bad”. Soothes Katya, watches as Trixie’s forehead scrunches up. She can’t help but feel as if she’s chosen the wrong composition of words, of emphasis’, when Trixie sits back so that she’s resting on her heels.

“No-“. She hiccups.

“I fucked up really badly, Katya, the fans are ‘gonna _hate_ it”. Concludes Trixie, just as a strenuous sob wracks her being. Trixie doesn’t want the feeling that’s blooming in her chest, the pain, and Katya wants to take it away for her but she can’t, instead tilts the girls chin up so that she can peer into Trixie’s bloodshot eyes.

“You don’t get it! I’m so-“. Trixie halts, rips her hand from Katya’s and begins pacing the room. Her legs are wobbly and shaky, but she balances a hand against the nearest wall. It’s cold, covered in droplets of condensation, and Trixie quickly despises the feeling against her overheated skin.

“I’m so- I’m so alone in this, and sometimes I _hate_ it so much and-“. Katya stands too, strides rapidly over to where Trixie’s taken to leaning her back against the wall.

It’s borderline freezing, and Trixie doesn’t know how when the weather outside is near scorching, but it’s cooling her down. It proves to be icy, so that she can feel the sweat that’s pumping from her skin quell to an unexpected stop.

Her words fail her for the second time that night, but it’s because Katya’s standing inches away from her, lips parted and eyes wide as if she doesn’t know how Trixie will react to her.

They’re _close_.

Trixie’s chest is rising and falling, inflating and sinking with every hurried shallow breath that she can manage to take. She’s breathless from singing, prancing around on stage and venting to Katya as the elder listened attentively.

Her skin is red and blotchy, and it’s strange and different because it’s normally Katya that looks flushed after a show, her tanned skin prickled with flecks of heat. But the roles are reversed, because Katya’s skin is makeup free and glowing, sun kissed, and Trixie is tilting her head back against said wall, reaching out with one hand and pulling the dancer closer.

_Even closer._

Katya’s breathing just as heavily, she can see where Trixie’s eyes are barely open, dilated and filled with unshed tears that she wants to prevent from falling -

And then they’re closed, so that Katya can see the creased orange eyeshadow on her eyelids before their lips meet in an amalgamation of lust, want, lipstick and _need_.

It’s messy, uncalculated, and Katya can taste _Trixie_ but Trixie can taste the spearmint gum that Katya’s got stored in the corner of her mouth, that she didn’t have chance to throw away before Trixie’s arms drew her in.

They yanked her into a universe of generic pink and country music, silky long blonde hair and soft, squishy hips that Katya’s already digging her fingertips into, but she thinks she _loves_ it.

Trixie’s pillowy lips open, and she’s sighing into Katya’s mouth with the feeling of Katya hiking one of her legs up until it’s hooked against her muscular thigh. Her thoughts evacuate the cell of her mind, and Katya’s pushing her firmer against the wall, one hand locked behind Trixie’s thigh to keep it elevated and the other roaming across her neck and décolletage.

It knocks the air out of her lungs, but Trixie’s fingers tangle in Katya’s hair and tug, hard, until they’re both panting. Katya allows Trixie’s leg to fall, instead steps closer still so that their chests press together enticingly.

Trixie’s nipples are hard, pressing against the swell of Katya’s breasts through the thing material of their shirts. Katya knows Trixie hasn’t bothered to wear a bra, can tell from the way her chest bounces softly as she walks, gesticulates wildly with her hands.

Katya’s own hands come to rest on Trixie’s shoulders, until she musters the will power to pull away from the kiss. A string of saliva connects them, and Katya breaks it with a pop of her lips. She can’t quite decipher if it’s disgusting or hot, but she thinks it’s the second option as Trixie’s eyes flicker open again.

The tears are mostly gone, instead have been replaced by a hazy film of sexuality that Katya wants to dive into. She will, she decides, when Trixie scratches her short manicured nails gently against her scalp.

“Can we book a hotel?”. Trixie’s eyes are still dilated and her voice is huskier, even as tear tracks are still staining her face, leaving streaks in her makeup. Katya’s nodding instantly, her hand lifting the hem of Trixie’s shirt so that she can rest her hand on the dimples of Trixie’s back.

“Is that what you want?”. Katya’s double checking, because even though it’s what she wants, she’d reverse that in a matter of seconds if she knew Trixie harboured the slightest ounce of uncertainty.

 _Unquestionably_.

But she doesn’t, and Trixie’s whispering _yeah_ , tugging Katya closer to her yet again by her waist, until she doesn’t think it’s possible for them to be any closer than they are.

“Michelle won’t mind-“. Trixie seems to have caught her breath, is standing stably on her own two legs so that she’s once again inches taller than Katya. “-We have a day off tomorrow”. She finishes, can feel the throb that’s circulating relentlessly around the lower half of her body.

Katya’s grinning, and then she’s kissing Trixie’s jaw so lightly that Trixie can feel herself becoming lightheaded. She grasps ahold of Katya’s arm in order to keep herself balanced, leans into the elders touch.

_“Alright, then, we’ll book a hotel”._

*****

Katya pushes Trixie down onto the bed.

The hotel they’ve booked is one that Trixie had spotted from the tour bus when they’d arrived at the city. It’s less than thirty minutes from the venue that they’d performed in, and the bed sheets seem soft and supple around Trixie’s body, if a little itchy.

It’s not the nicest they could have found, with all of the nicer hotels being fully booked, having no vacancies at such short notice but she supposed it’ll do when she kicks off her shoes, feels the sheets glide between her legs.

It’s warm, _hot_ , and Trixie’s sweating again in the heat of the room and the silky sheets that aren’t made for this kind of weather. Katya’s sweating, too, droplets running down her forehead and her spine and the backs of her thighs.

Katya is strong above her, though, a solid presence that manages to keep Trixie grounded and not floating away akin to a helium balloon as Katya’s thigh presses between her legs.

Trixie wants to grind up against it, but Katya’s keeping her held down so that she can’t move, and Trixie should feel restricted but she doesn’t. She trusts Katya, has imagined the both of them in this particular scenario too many times to count and remember.

She’s pictured it when they’ve been huddled in bed, Trixie’s laptop that they’d balance on Katya’s lap playing reruns of horrendous comedy series. Or when Katya’s hand had lingered for a moment too long against Trixie’s waist when pulling the bleach blonde into an embrace, placing a delicate kiss on her highlighted cheek.

Trixie’s whimpering, kissing Katya’s lips with vigour as she recalls the mornings she’s gotten herself off to the thought of Katya’s fingers on her, inside of her, with a pulsating shower head against her clit drawing a blissful orgasm from her body.

It’s _new_.

But the smell of Katya’s perfume that’s blanketing her is _familiar_ , as are the hands that are tugging off her shirt and skirt until Trixie’s laying dishevelled and braless on the bed. Her underwear are black, lacy, and Katya’s momentarily surprised that they’re not pink, though she doesn’t really care and neither does Trixie.

Trixie only wants Katya to dig her fingers into where they’re cutting into the soft skin of her rose petal stretch mark painted hips, pull at them until they rip, so that she can discard them on the floor with the rest of her clothing.

She doesn’t do so, though, instead glides them smoothly down Trixie’s thick thighs and sculpted calf’s until she’s able to fold them delicately at the end of the king sized bed.

They’re damp, and Katya’s smirks up at Trixie when she feels the material. Trixie’s blushing, but she’s not ashamed because she wants this and so does Katya judging by the eager look in her eyes and the way she’s rapidly sitting back on her heels in order to tug off her own items of clothing.

She doesn’t treat herself as delicately as she had Trixie, instead opts to forgo turning her clothing the right way, chooses to leave it inside out before she lobs it towards the general direction of the futon that she knows resides in the corner of the room.

Humming, Trixie’s pulling Katya back down to her level, fingernails scratching at the taught skin of her back where she can feel each individual notch of the dancers spine. She admires how built Katya is, how she’s holding herself up effortlessly on one arm while the other slips itself under Trixie’s body. She grabs at the tender flesh of Trixie’s ass, squeezes with just enough pressure so that Trixie knows what she’s in for.

 _Feeling_.

Trixie just wants to _feel_ , and she’s tugging down on Katya’s hair rougher than she normally would with anybody else because she needs it. Is desperate for Katya’s tongue that’s flicking across her right nipple, kissing the swell of her breast around it until Trixie’s tightening her grip further, moaning openly into the void of the room.

They’ll laugh about it tomorrow, knowing that Michelle is in the room next door to them and can probably hear every squeak of the bed frame through the paper thin walls. She’ll eye them suspiciously when they gather outside of the tour bus, because Trixie already knows that once Katya fucks her she’s not going to be able to forget about it.

It’ll be written all over her face, over her neck and chest; _evidence_.

Katya pulls back, and Trixie’s eyes remain closed. She’s panting heavily, still trying feebly to get Katya closer to her. She’s leaving scratches in the skin of Katya’s shoulder blades, yanking at locks of hair that have frizzed a little in the humidity.

It’s rougher, but it’s still somehow too soft for Trixie. Katya’s touching her like she’s going to fall apart, as if she doesn’t believe Trixie can handle the force or the passion that lies behind her eyes. She whines, high in her throat, and the reaction she gets from Katya combines a guttural moan with a kiss to Trixie’s sternum.

“ _Baby_ ”. Katya murmurs, nips at Trixie’s earlobe and up to the cartilage teasingly with pearlescent teeth that snap together into a near perfect line.

Trixie’s back is arching as Katya’s nibbles and kisses descend, from her neck to her collarbones and down to the underside of her breasts that are heavy against Katya’s palms. She pinches at Trixie’s rosy nipples between her thumb and her forefinger of one hand, as the other rises, comes to push sweat dampened curls away from Trixie’s face.

Her makeup is _everywhere_.

It’s smudged to the point of no return, where her lipstick looks non existent even if Katya’s aware that there’s probably more of it on her own lips than there is on Trixie’s, and her mascara has transferred far below her eyes.

She looks fucked out already, katya observes, wonders briefly what she’d look like by now if she’d already slid down the length of her body, coaxed her to an orgasm.

Katya disregards her train of thought, sits back, until she’s kneeling on the bed between Trixie’s open thighs. They’re glistening, both with sweat and arousal and Katya wants to lean down, drag her tongue from behind her knee and up to her core.

“Baby doll-”. Katya tries, manages to get Trixie’s eyelids to flicker. “-Look at me”. She breathes, massages Trixie’s inner thighs with calloused fingers and flaky palms.

Trixie’s pupils are so dilated when she opens her eyes that Katya can barely see the depth of her irises, or the bright whites of her eyes in the room that’s lit by a singular, yellow bed side lamp.

She bites at her bottom lip with her slightly crooked teeth, and Katya is unaware of whether or not it’s suppose to be intentionally alluring or sensual but it is, regardless, so she focuses on the rise and fall of Trixie’s chest.

“Slow down, alright?-“. She questions. “- _Relax_ ”. Drawls Katya, touch roaming across the slight curve of Trixie’s stomach and hips, that dip and pivot.

Trixie whines again.

It’s a sound that Katya’s quickly becoming accustomed to, the neediness that’s conveyed through the primal sound. She wants to record it, play it on loop in her ears so that she never misses a single beat of it; of _Trixie_.

“I just need you to _fuck_ me”. Trixie breathes, and Katya huffs out a disbelieving laugh. She doesn’t think it’ll sink in for a while, how she’s got Trixie, lying compliantly under her on the bed sheets of a _middle-of-the-range_ hotel in some quaint town of an eastern state.

Her lips are parted and her fingers are twitching and Katya doesn’t quite understand it, in that moment. Trixie’s young, younger than Katya is, with enough soul to sell out venues and enough sexuality to draw in anybody she could want, really. But she’s chosen Katya, and that thought alone is a little baffling to the darker blonde.

Trixie’s there, and she wants Katya to fuck her into whatever state they’re headed for next.

“I will-“. She settles, lowers herself once again so that she’s straddling Trixie’s thigh. “-But you gotta’ take it easy”. It’s whispered, as Katya’s hand that isn’t holding her up securely trails down Trixie’s body.

Trixie nods, slumps back into the pillows that the hotel have scattered in order to make the room more homely, comfortable. Katya smiles gleefully, kisses at Trixie’s parted lips whilst the lighter blonde wraps one of her arms loosely around Katya’s neck, tugs at the curly baby hairs at the nape.

She’s _wet_.

Soaking, as Katya slides two fingers against her clit, down to her hole that’s clenching around thin air. Whimpering, searching for friction that she’s not going to discover, Trixie grips at the pillow beneath her head.

It crunches beneath her grip as Katya fingers enter her, one then two then three and it’s a stretch, burns so deliciously that Trixie’s eyes peel open to focus on Katya’s expression as she thrusts forwards, withdraws.

The vein in Katya’s arm, her bicep, is bulging as she curls her fingers up inside of Trixie, and it’s what the girl focuses her eyes on when she feels Katya beginning to grind aggravatingly slowly against her thigh.

Trixie wishes Katya would do it quicker, faster, because she wants Katya to get off so that she’ll finally rub her thumb in tight circles across her sensitive clit, draw her to edge whilst moaning into Trixie’s mouth.

She can feel herself clenching, this time around the welcomed girth of Katya’s fingers, and she knows that Katya must be close too from the way her hips stutter momentarily and how she stops kissing Trixie briefly in order to inhale and exhale raggedly.

 _Intensity_.

Trixie’s about to come, she knows she is, she can’t not be on the verge of coming with Katya’s fingers curling just right inside of her, hitting that sweet spot that she’s rarely able to reach with her own fingers. The thumb on her clit is intoxicating too, as is the feeling of Katya’s own slick wetness slipping against her thigh.

She wants to reach down, touch Katya like she’s touching Trixie. But her hands are trembling and she knows her fumbling would be clumsy and inaccurate, so she focuses on wrapping her arms around Katya’s waist instead, keeping the elder girl steady so that she can get them both off.

“ _Katya_ -“. Trixie’s voice cracks sweetly, and Katya’s head is resting on her shoulder, forehead flush against skin and pointy nose digging in noticeably. Katya’s thrusting quicker, harder, and it’s what Trixie both wants and needs.

“Let go-“. Katya’s tone is high and breathy, unlike Trixie’s ever heard it when she’s telling Trixie to let go with her eyes screwed shut and her mouth agape.

“- _Let go”_.

She repeats, and Trixie _does_. Comes with a cry of Katya’s name as she seizes around her fingers, jolts with the relentless movement of Katya’s thumb against her over stimulated clit, whilst Katya’s hips canter to a sudden halt.

Everything’s _warm_ , some things wet and damp. They’re both shaking with pleasurable aftershocks, Katya slouching off of Trixie to lay her head on the opposite pillow.

Breaths come few and far between as Katya allows Trixie to drape herself across her, throw her leg across one of Katya’s and pull the duvet up to their waists.

They’re both hot, sticky and sweaty messes that fail to grasp ahold of reality, with nail indentations on shoulders and hips, floral garlands of bruises blooming on necks and chests. Dried come painted down thighs and up wrists.

Katya will get up in a little while, she swears, will wipe them both down with a damp wash cloth whilst Trixie remains sound asleep, basking in the afterglow that doesn’t happen usually, with other people.

She knows that she won’t, will probably sleep until morning, but it’s a nice thought, as she watches Trixie lick at her parched lips, pull Katya closer by her heated waist with a faint smile that’s settled upon said lips.

_A nice thought._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of her wants to quit right now. Wants to tell Trixie that she’s done with the tour, dancing every night until her feet ache and her ankles swell disgustingly, infuriatingly.
> 
> She wants to hop on a plane at the nearest airport, travel New York or Chicago or Boston or wherever, force herself to forget about the previous months that have been beyond strenuous -
> 
> But she can’t, because of Trixie. It’s not plausible to abandon the tour, Trixie’s tour, when she’s so infatuated with the girl who holds a voice like woven silk and has skin that feels the same; soft, tender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this chapter is super unedited and i apologise, but i wanted to get it posted because i haven’t posted in a while! again, i just want to say thank you so much to everybody who’s left kudos or lovely comments, they truly make my day! anyway, i hope you enjoy! ♡

Waking up the following morning feels exponentially different.

The weather outside is grey, just overcast so that the sun rarely flickers through the heavy clouds. It’s colder too, cooler, ten degrees or so from the previous day where foreheads sweated and thighs stuck to leather chairs in aggravation.

Clothing is scattered across the end of the bed and the floor surrounding it, an organised disarray akin to autumn leaves littering the ground as they crisp up, fall. They need to be folded, Trixie knows that, is aware that they’ve probably creased unflatteringly overnight and will look disheveled when she pulls them over her rested bones and tender joints.

She sighs.

They’re in a hotel that’s neither as bad as a rundown motel, damp and dusty, or as luxurious as some places Trixie’s stayed In in Vegas or Florida, with high ceilings and patterned carpet that have been dragged from the 1970’s.

Trixie notices the dryness of her mouth before she becomes aware of the glare of the bedside lamps that remain switched on by the mains. They’re Tiffany ones, burnt orange and plum that distort the light in the room due to the occasional rays sun peaking through the mesh and net curtains, too.

She closes her eyes, and decides it’ll do, because the sheets are warm and somewhat soft, supple against her bare skin - and _yes_ the slight itch of the sheets is still there, like it was the night before, but she doesn’t fear it as she burrows her head further into the downy pillow beneath her.

Her legs are smooth, mostly, apart from the light blonde stubble that’s growing back on her shins, though it’s not something that concerns her with warm breath hot against her temple, making her eyelashes flutter.

She stretches out her spine to the best of her abilities, the constant weight against the side of her body a continuous reminder of the scratch marks decorating the skin of her back, the bruises painted across her chest and the half moon indentations that are engraved into the peach fuzz ladened expanse of her thighs.

Katya’s snoring lightly, and normally Trixie would shove her, tell her to _be quiet_ , but it isn’t another morning where they wake up wrapped in sweatshirts, sweatpants and blankets in the bed of Trixie’s tour bus.

They’re naked and it’s _nice_ , and Trixie’s not going to complain for a second when for once she’s woken up without the irritating shrill sound of an alarm clock drilling into the cavern of her ears, digging for gold that it won’t find.

It _feels_ different because it _is_ different, she decides, so she relaxes back into the sheets further, allows the cool material to sooth her sore skin, kiss at shoulders and tailbone.

She waits for Katya to wake up, then, watches as her nostrils flare with every inhale and exhale, the way her dark eyelashes tap at her under eyes rhythmically when her eyes twitch in their sockets as she’s brought to consciousness.

It’s easy, and Trixie’s mind is empty.

Birds whirl in nests, around trees, drop broken twigs and leaves from heights that only wings would allow. Breezes gust, blow through the strands of Trixie’s hair thats prickled with flowers, daisies and daffodils that glow yellow in the warmth. She tangles her fingers in the section draped down the side of her head, tucks it behind her ear as she focuses her gaze on the sunshine next to her; on _Katya_.

It’s been too long since Trixie’s felt the way that she does, worries having leaked from the reservoir of doubt in her head and dribbled out onto her pillowcase.

She feels light, the deadweight having dropped from her arms, her shoulders and her legs that are tangled with Katya’s. She smiles, and Katya’s twitching in her sleep, grounding Trixie with the fingers that interlink with her own.

Trixie knows it won’t take long for her to wake up, from then. She’s stirring, and then she’s pecking lazily at Trixie’s cheek, down her neck and to her shoulders before she rises again, kisses Trixie closed on the mouth.

Trixie’s eyebrows arch, as she scrutinises Katya’s orbs which are glazed over, with peacefulness and mirth. She knows Katya probably has morning breath, was only preventing her from smelling it, tasting it, as she kept her lips sealed.

“Morning breath”. Katya husks, confirms Trixie’s suspicions as she shuffled back so that she can rest her head on the pillow next to Trixie’s.

Trixie giggles sleepily, tucks her arm that had been free from the confines of the blankets back under them, until it’s enveloped in a toasty heat. The air is humid under said blankets, heavy, a stark contrast to the cool air that appears to be circulating around the room, throughout the hotel.

She pulls Katya closer to her, a hand scrunched delicately in her wavy hair that’s crimped unflatteringly at the roots throughout the course of the night. Trixie’s nibbling at her own bottom lip. She can feel where they’ve dried out during sleep and she licks at them tentatively, reminds herself to apply a generous layer of chapstick once she showers, brushes her teeth.

“I don’t care”. Murmurs Trixie, her nose bumping up against Katya’s. Their skin is oily, greasy, and they both need a shower and a large glass of water but Katya’s chuckling lowly, pulling at Trixie’s thick thigh until the younger girl is hiked across her lap, chin resting on her chest.

“Disgusting”. Katya mumbles, before she’s kissing at Trixie’s lips, licking into her mouth so that Trixie’s left mewling, squeezing at Katya’s hips with her thighs and her knees until she feels as if she might crush her, cause her brittle bones to snap.

Trixie’s hands remain looped in Katya’s hair, and she’s long decided that she likes them there, where she can almost control Katya’s movements; where she kisses her and how intensely she does so.

Katya’s eyes deepen. Her irises appear blown and wide when Trixie tugs especially hard on the strands closer to her temples, the tanned skin being pulled taught. The action makes her eyes water, and Trixie’s smirking proudly, satisfied across from her.

Katya grins back, pinches at the soft skin of Trixie’s stomach where her arm is looped loosely, until Trixie’s recoiling, jumping out of bed cackling, and uttering about a shower that she needs whilst she picks at the strewn items of clothing, throws them into her suitcase in the corner of the room.

*****

 _Naturally_ , they shower together.

Katya doesn’t want to get out of bed, but she does so regardless, groans into the pillow beneath her head before swinging her legs, until her feet are aquatinted with the scratchy carpeted floor. It makes her shiver, and she wishes momentarily that they’d chosen a nicer hotel to stay in for the night, because unlike Trixie she’s not thrilled about the room, and the cost that she knows that they’re paying for it, too.

Even wooden floors would be better, she muses, the cold would shock her body awake and alive without irritating the soft skin of the bottoms of her feet and heels that are blistered from consecutive nights of dancing.

She clicks her spine, trails behind Trixie, hot on her heels until they’re both secluded in the small glass cubicle, dripping with steam and condensation that’s not meant for two people but is, now that they’re both there.

It’s soft. _Fun_ , almost.

Katya finds herself washing Trixie’s curly locks with ease, squeezing Trixie’s travel sized bergamot shampoo and conditioner into the palms of her hands separately, lathering them into the strands that stick to Trixie’s shoulder blades one at a time.

Trixie hums softly, drags Katya under the less than forceful trickle of the shower head so that she can wash her own conditioner off, as Trixie follows. She squeezes the excess water from her hair, and is pushing Katya backwards, against the porcelain tiles, before she’s on her knees, eating Katya out as a light, gracious _thank you_.

Katya’s hands grapple at the slippery tiles, grasp for purchase and fail, until the sweat dripping down her chest, between her breasts, mingles with the water so that Katya can’t tell them apart anymore by the time she comes.

A combination of both, _probably_ , she realises as she pulls Trixie back up. She can see where Trixie’s knees are all marked up, dented red and pink from having knelt on the uneven shower floor, so she pulls her closer, kisses her softly on the mouth where she can still taste remnants of herself.

It’s hot, and Katya’s slinking a hand down the front of Trixie’s body, encouraging the lighter blonde to rest her weight on Katya because she can take it, can hold her up without much trouble with the muscles in her thighs and biceps. Her fingertips find Trixie’s clit with ease, and she’s rubbing the girl to a quick orgasm with a practice and precision that Trixie finds admirable.

They’re both panting still, and Katya’s name is a mantra, a prayer at a column, that leaves Trixie’s lips as she comes, hands threaded into the elders freshly washed hair that’s everywhere; _dripping_.

Trixie’s standing on shaky legs. Her muscles feel weak and her knees still haven’t regained their strength as Katya pulls her in close, despite not owning much more stability. She’s kissing at Trixie’s cheeks, across her nose and her eyes that are closed, so that her eyelashes tickle at her lips.

“Go on a date with me today? Or just like - food?”.

Katya breathes, which leaves Trixie rolling her eyes exasperatedly. All of her weight is balanced on Katya, and she still hasn’t caught her breath properly, lungs heavy in her chest and heart threatening to beat out of its enclosure. It’s a lot, and Trixie can already feel her legs longing to walk themselves back to bed, sleep for a couple more hours; _days_.

She can taste Katya on her lips, coating her tongue and it’s sweet, as are the dark blondes words that meet her ears in a soft whisper. Trixie inhales deeply, giggles breathlessly as she lessens the pressure she’s been leaning on Katya’s strong body.

“Bad timing, Katya”. Laughs Trixie, before they’re both stepping out of the shower, wrapping themselves in the fluffy towels that have been provided by the hotel. They’re softer than the bed sheets, and Katya’s grateful for that much when it caresses her overheated skin delightfully.

Serenely, they fall back into the unmade bed, towels wrapped loosely and carelessly around their bodies. Damp hair sticks to shoulders, backs and necks, as their feet leave footprints on the grey coloured mattress.

It’s calm, as Trixie rolls over, rests her chin on Katya’s chest where she’s able to tuck the corner of the snowy towel out of the way, place a kiss to a cluster of freckles that Katya harbours just below her right collarbone.

She hums at the feel of Trixie’s lips pressing to her skin, drapes her own arm around Trixie’s shoulders so that she can scratch at the back of Trixie’s neck, press into the marks that she knows she left there with her lips, teeth, nails.

“You never gave me an answer”. Teases Katya, pinches at the cartilage at the top of Trixie’s ear where it’s visible beneath the strands of hair that are slowly drying within the humidity of the room.

Trixie smirks in response, slips her hands under her chin on Katya’s chest so that she’s a little more propped up, can stare directly down into Katya’s eyes that are half closed in contentment. She settles between Katya’s thighs, so that her elbows are able to rest on either side of Katya’s body.

“Where would you take me?”. Trixie’s still smirking, wetting her top lip with her tongue. She can feel Katya’s eyes following her movements, and repeats it, just so that the other girl can observe for longer; _awestruck_.

Katya purses her lips, drops both of her hands to Trixie’s back where the towel has come loose. She traces the scratch marks that are raised on her back, witnesses Trixie’s slight wince at the sensation even as Trixie’s eyes burn into hers, tell her that she likes it.

“Where would you ‘wanna go?”. Questions Katya half heartedly. She knows that Trixie’s not being completely serious, understands that Trixie’s accepting her invitation through the glimmer in her eyes and the rapid thump of her heart that Katya can feel reverberating through her chest.

Inhaling through her nose, Trixie purses her lips, adjusts her position so that she’s kneeling above Katya, towering over her. She plants her hands either side of Katya’s head, corners her until she can lean down, lips inches from the girl that’s looking back at her alluringly.

“Somewhere _real_ fancy”. Jokes Trixie. Katya knows that it _is_ , is a joke, from the way her lip twitches noticeably, catches on her slightly crooked teeth that Katya’s come to like; love.

“So, the nearest place with a dollar menu?”. She banters in return, pulls Trixie down to her level by threading her hands in her still somewhat damp locks. She ponders briefly if the feeling that washes over her is why Trixie seems to like it - control, yet submission.

A connection.

“ _Perfect_ ”.

*****

They visit a small Italian joint that serves homemade pastas, pizzas, and gelato.

It’s just on the outskirts of the town that they have both neglected to learn the name of, and Trixie thinks it’s called _Latrice’s_ \- after the owner - but she can’t be sure, not with Katya proving to be a distraction constantly, sitting impatiently across from her as they wait for the waiter to bring over their ravioli.

The seats are tall, high wooden booths that aren’t the most comfortable but hold more character than half of the chain restaurants Trixie’s eaten in whilst touring the states.

She finds the whole aura adorable, quaint, wouldn’t mind if she was allowed to curl up in one of the arm chairs she can spot huddled in the far corner of the familial restaurant, sit there for hours nursing a cup of coffee that’s been freshly brewed by one of the skilled baristas.

Trixie’s thighs that aren’t covered by her skirt stick to them, to the seats, so that when she lifts them they peel away, ripple akin to the sound of a creak of a leather couch.

Katya laughs at her, but Trixie chuckles brazenly right back when Katya’s clumsy enough to get marinara sauce everywhere apart from in her mouth; on the shirt she’s wearing, which just happens to be white, her denim pants and the disposable napkins that are littered across the table.

Her cheek and her chin, _too_.

Trixie sighs happily, relaxes into the seats. She reiterates to herself that they’re far from pleasant to sit on, even if she knows that she’s sat on chairs at five stat restaurants that have left her with a stiffer back than she knows these will.

Setting down her fork, Trixie lifts her glass of orange juice to her lips, begins sipping at it lightly. Katya’s leg is brushing up against hers beneath the table top, and the rough scratch of the coarse denim against her smooth shins is intoxicating. She sets her glass down again.

“Is this what a day off is like?”. Muses Trixie, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Katya’s snickering, still chewing through forkfuls of ravioli as Trixie talks, sips occasionally at the freshly squeezed fruit juice.

Under the table, Katya crosses her legs. She sits up straighter, clanks down her knife and fork on her plate once she’s sure that she’s finished scraping through her food. She notices Trixie recoil at the noise, grimaces when Katya mumbles a faint _sorry_.

“Feels surreal, huh?”. Settles Katya, because it does. A day off. _Nothingness_.

The thought baffles and perplexes her to the extent where she can’t remember when she last had a day to herself, to roam around an unfamiliar city, free from the confines of the tour bus that dragged them through state boarders and countrysides.

Part of her wants to quit right now. Wants to tell Trixie that she’s done with the tour, dancing every night until her feet ache and her ankles swell disgustingly, infuriatingly.

She wants to hop on a plane at the nearest airport, travel New York or Chicago or Boston or wherever, force herself to forget about the previous months that have been beyond strenuous -

But she can’t, because of _Trixie_. It’s not plausible to abandon the tour, _Trixie’s_ tour, when she’s so infatuated with the girl who holds a voice like woven silk and has skin that feels the same; soft, tender.

She’s found herself caring for her, and it’s different because that’s not what Katya does, usually. Katya will sleep with somebody once, maybe twice, before she’s bored, wanting something new.

It’s not a bad thing, she’s decided, not by a long shot. It’s only inconvenient because she knows that despite Trixie’s own past with hooking up with the occasional girl in the rare city, she’s not the biggest fan of the almost conventional behaviour. Trixie keeps on being new, however, and Katya’s jaw is hooked onto her fishing line, biting at the bait that she so frequently provides.

Katya picks up her own glass of mango juice.

“Just a little bit”. Mocks Trixie, before it’s quiet. _Silent_.

Katya’s mind is still whirling, and she’s searching for a conversation starter that Trixie will accept, embrace in her arms that she’s folded atop of the table. She flicks through the archives, lands amongst folders that she thinks will do, will provide them with something to talk about.

“Can I ask you something?”. Katya tries. It’s not often that they’re left in a silence so poignant, where both are uncertain of what to say. Conversation flows, usually, like the green tea and honey that Trixie likes to drink being poured into a china tea cup.

Trixie’s cowering behind her glass of orange juice, sipping gently whenever feels appropriate after murmuring a low _sure_. Trixie doesn’t know what Katya’s about to ask her, but whatever it is she guesses she can conjure up a legible answer, with words and expressions and smiles.

“What would you be doing if you, you know, weren’t a singer?”. Katya looks genuinely intrigued. It’s been playing on her mind for longer than she can recall, and Trixie nods her head affirmatively, prepares an answer.

Trixie inhales deeply.

“I went to beauty school for a little while, way back when-“. She admits. “-I guess I’d be a makeup artist or, I don’t know, a hair colourist”. Finishes Trixie, so that Katya’s chuckling, nodding her head too.

“Of course you would”. Katya teases, nudges her knee against Trixie’s under the table, until Trixie’s eyes meet hers, a heavy blush coating her makeup free face. Katya likes the way that the tops of her cheekbones glisten naturally in the low light of the restaurant, the warmth of the yellow strip lights.

“Am I _that_ predictable?”. She’s still blushing, and it seems to be intensifying rather than calming down but Katya doesn’t mind, and Trixie barely notices when she’s busy twirling a a strand of her own hair between her thumb and forefinger, stretching out the curl until it’s straight, letting it go and watching it coil back into its original set shape.

“No-“. Katya shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly.

“-It’s very you. I couldn’t picture you in an office or, like, teaching kids”. Trixie hums a vague agreement, places her now empty cup down on the brown leather coaster that’s sticky with droplets of juice.

Katya eyes her fingers that grip it as she does so. Her knuckles are almost white with how tightly she had been gripping it, and Katya can’t quite work out why she felt the need to do so, but she wants Trixie’s fingers tugging that tightly at her hair again, at her wrists and her shoulders.

“I can’t believe they have beauty schools in the most _southern_ south”. Taunts Katya, until Trixie’s rolling her eyes, slumping her shoulders so that she’s reclined in the booth; relaxed.

The sight makes Katya bite at the inside of her cheek. She already wants to get Trixie back to the tour bus, close the curtain and the door to the secluded bedroom area because now that she’s had Trixie, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get enough of her. Of her wide hips and squishy thighs, her heavy breasts and her cheeks that flush pink with pleasure and heat.

Katya shivers, and she thinks that Trixie’s cottoned on to the visuals popping from the reflections in her eyes, so she sits on her hands, tucks them under her thighs to stop her fingers from twitching unwittingly.

“They don’t”. Trixie deadpans, trailing her eyes of Katya’s throat that bobs slightly as she swallows.

“No?”. Asks Katya, and she still looks as intrigued as she did when she first asked Trixie about her supposed _plan B_. Trixie admires it, Katya’s ability to focus her attention solely on her, the other aspects of her character asides from music, performing.

“I lived in L.A. for nearly sixth months when I was eighteen, _young and dumb_ and, _whatever_ ”. Confesses Trixie, and Katya’s not entirely shocked by the idea.

She can picture Trixie, all pink and floral, walking or roller skating down Santa Monica boulevard, earphones blasting _Dolly_ or _Loretta_. She’d have her backpack loosely slung over one shoulder, a bottle of iced peach tea stashed away for when she got too thirsty, too tired.

Images of a possible apartment flicker through her mind, too. Trixie would have probably tacked Polaroid’s all across walls and desktops, hung strings of fairy lights just to make it appear more homely, because that’s a Trixie thing to do, she knows.

“You were an L.A. girl?”. Katya queries, and Trixie’s looking at her like she’s almost bored of the conversation.

She doesn’t want to push it, but she does want to know about everything the lighter blondes willing to share with her - wants to know what flavour gum Trixie prefers, spearmint or berry, if Trixie would ever want to get married, have an understated or extravagant wedding.

Katya looks on hopefully.

“Once, before I got signed, yeah. I still have an apartment in West Hollywood”. Trixie shrugs, brushes it off. She doesn’t want to think about what she does when she’s not on tour, of what she has to go back to when closing night arrives.

She knows it’s not far away, no more than a couple of weeks or so, and she’s not ready for it, this, to end. So she changes the subject, outstretches her arm across the width of the table, grasps tentatively at Katya’s hand that the elder has now placed atop of the table, began tapping her nails on it menially.

“What about you, _hm_? What would Katya be doing if she didn’t bust her ass dancing?”. Trixie’s laughing, and Katya follows, rubs her thumb naturally over Trixie’s rounded knuckles, her dainty fingers.

“Probably-“. Katya cuts herself off, ponders and toys with her answer. “I never had a steady job before dancing took off, really. I worked at bars, chain restaurants, the lot of it, but I went to college for literature”.

She concludes, and Trixie’s eyes bug a little. She knows that Katya likes poetry, indulges in novels written long before their time that Trixie’s never cared for, never tried to understand.

But she never thought that Katya would have studied it, attended classes in order to refine her knowledge of the subject. It’s a naive thought, and Trixie’s kicking herself a little for underestimating Katya’s intellect, even if the darker blonde has never mentioned it before.

“No way?”. Tries Trixie, voice soft. Katya nods her head, leans her chin on the folded up fist of her free hand.

“Yeah-“. Katya begins, clearing her throat. It’s groggy from the pasta and the sauce, but Trixie’s observing her, and only her, so she searches for the words that are titillating on the tip of her tongue. “-I can’t say it was my finest life choice, but I loved it at the time so I can’t say anything bad about it”.

Trixie’s leaning forward, across the table slightly so that she’s more in Katya’s space than she has been throughout the entirety of the meal. Katya’s smiling, and Trixie’s humming her acknowledgment faintly.

“She’s educated”.

“She _is_ ”.

They’re both content with the dwindle in conversation that appears, can appreciate the peaceful silence that surrounds them aside from the clatter of plates that they can hear emanating from the kitchen and the vibration of Katya’s phone that chimes seconds later.

It’s laying face down, and she eyes it but doesn’t answer it, leaves Trixie wondering why. The younger nods towards it, silently tells katya to check it. She does so, looks back towards Trixie once she has, her face almost blank.

“ _Michelle_ ”. Katya states, and Trixie’s momentarily confused. It’s stupid, really, she knows that it is, but the idea of life existing outside of the familial Italian restaurant had fled her mind.

She’d be content to sit across from Katya for hours, talk about nothing and yet everything, tell Katya about her affinity for sunflowers and yellow eyeshadow that she rarely wears, have Katya relay quotes to her from her favourite _Jane Austen_ or _Charlotte Brontë_ novel - _“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will”._

“Hmm?”. She settles on instead. Herself and Katya have been gone hours, and she’s aware that Michelle’s probably waiting for them somewhere in the city, or on the tour bus that’s parked somewhere outside of the hotel they stayed at for the night.

She supposes either option is a possibility.

“She wants us back at the hotel by five, the bus is picking us up at half past-”. Katya states sullenly, her expression solemn, whilst Trixie looks down at her watch. It reads half past four, and she reminds herself that it’s about a twenty minute walk back to the hotel; back to an estranged normality.

“-She said to avoid the town too, apparently there’s a few fans around”. Katya adds regretfully. Trixie purses her lips, sighs as her eyes flutter closed whilst she nods.

She’s used to it, having to avoid certain roots, specific areas where fans tend to congregate the day after she’s performed in the city if rumours circulate about her whereabouts. The thought repeats itself in her head. She’s used to it.

 _Sadly_.

*****

They leave when Katya swallows her last drop of sparkling water.

She’d poured it last minute, from the glass jug that had been sitting just off centre on their table for the duration of the meal, and Trixie doesn’t know why she drinks it when to her it tastes like fizzy metal, but she guesses that’s Katya.

Different, if a _little_ obscure.

They stalk back towards the bus slowly, and by the time they arrive Michelle’s eyeing them suspiciously. Trixie’s makeup free skin is blushing, and Katya’s grinning so that all of her gleaming white teeth are on show.

Both girls are positive that Michelle knows that _something_ is going on, but to what extent, they’re unsure. Katya’s spoken to Michelle on numerous occasions, when they’ve sat on the steps of the tour bus, working their way through a pack of twenty cigarettes between them; _easily_.

She’s told her how much she likes Trixie, and Michelle has responded with simple _I knows_ , and how she thinks it’s obvious, as does every other member of the tour - the fellow dancers and Trixie’s band, the rugged country guys.

It’s why Katya thinks that Michelle’s mind has clicked, has tuned in to the energy that oscillates back and forth on the seesaw between them, both sexual and the undeniable chemistry that Trixie sometimes swears she can see exploding between them, akin to all of the science experiments she’d messed up in high school which lead her to fail two classes.

Only this feels nothing like failing to Trixie, or Katya, and when Michelle departs to board the bus, Katya pulls Trixie to the side, behind the bus so that they’re hidden from any prying eyes.

“I had a _real_ good time today”. It’s just the two of them, but Katya’s whispering, mumbling, bracketing her arms around Trixie’s head and shoulders against the cool, chilly aluminium of the bus. Trixie smiles up at her from where she’s slouching, and where Katya’s on her tip toes so that she’s a mere inch or so taller than Trixie.

“I did too-”. Trixie breathes, nibbles at her plump bottom lip. “-I liked it a lot”.

She concludes, looping her arms loosely around Katya’s waist. She’s warm, a strong presence against Trixie’s exhausted being, and it’s something she’s not going to be able to do without anytime soon, she decides then.

“Maybe we could do it again some time?”. Katya sounds more sure of herself now that Trixie’s confirmed she enjoyed as much as Katya did, and Trixie feels the confidence exuding from the elder drawing her in, tying knots around her bones.

“I, yeah, yeah definitely”. Stammers Trixie. Her eyes are wide and happy, but she’s tired, and katya realises that when she yawns, her eyes beginning to water. The tiny tear droplets gather in the inner corners of her eyes, threaten to spill over.

“Alright-“. Katya nods, grins before pulling Trixie by the hand towards the door of the bus.

_“-But for now, doll, I think you need some sleep”._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her destination is undetermined, though she knows that she’ll miss Katya if they end up in different states. She’s certain that she’s not going to find anybody that’s as Katya as Katya is anytime soon, and is fully aware that she won’t come across a person that will fuck her as good and as thoroughly as Katya does, either -
> 
> and she knows that she loves her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penultimate chapter!! (this was suppose to be all one chapter with the final one, but it was way too long and didn’t flow too well, so i thought it’d be better to split them into two, idk) anyway, thank you so much again for all of the lovely feedback on the last chapter and i really hope you enjoy this one!! ♡

Trixie thinks she’s forgotten what it’s like to not be on tour.

Her body has become a master. A wizard at adjusting to different time zones across opposite sides of the country, over state borders constantly. It’s only a couple of hours difference, four hours here and two hours there, but it’s a lot when she relies on getting five or six hours sleep a night in order to repeatedly perform, sing and jig around stage floors, sweat pumping from her being.

She’s gotten used to uncomfortable hotel beds, the cramped space of the tour bus that has proven to be her only source of peace, on occasions; a safe haven.

She thinks her spine has moulded to the unfortunately springy mattress on said bus, and is almost positive that the sheets there are permanently stained with makeup, foundation and lipstick, from the countless nights she’s fallen to sleep with a full face on.

It’s because she’s been simply exhausted. Worn out to the extent that on some days she swears she’s collapsed as soon as her head hit the pillow, because she’d been sleepwalking long before that, since she stepped off of whatever stage she had sung on that night, hobbled off and awaited for one of the crew members to unclip her from her wired microphone.

She thinks it’s _crazy_ , if she’s honest. There are some moments when Trixie still can’t quite believe her luck, that she’s able to live well above the line of financial stability because she does what she loves on a daily basis, and other people happen to love that, too.

 _Luck_.

The word itself makes her laugh, because she knows it’s not luck. She’s worked, and worked hard, she reminds herself. It’s one thing to believe she’s been undeniably fortunate in her circumstances, but it’s another to allow herself to indulge in the idea of luck.

 _Luck_ didn’t get her out of dingy dive bars and diners, casinos where she felt like a stuffed animal in the claw machine. Hands grasped and groped, pinched at her skin where she didn’t want them to all because she was young, and blonde and pretty, and men from the country weren’t used to the idea of a woman being free from their clutches, their control.

The sheer thought of it makes her shiver, and she’s grateful for the reminder that it provides that she doesn’t have to go through experiences like that anymore, even if she’s left empathising with the women that do.

Instead, the hands that touch her are wanted. They’re consensual and needed, because they’re _Katya’s_ hands, Katya’s fingers that push her so far into bed sheets that sometimes Trixie thinks she might drown in them, suffocate in the watery cotton fabric.

She wants that at times, when Katya’s short nails dig so deliciously into the flesh of her back that she’s left moaning and writhing, biting at her bottom lip so hard that it bleeds and bruises into the next day, so that when Katya kisses her she’s reminded of the elders fingers on her, all around her, inside of her.

Blinking her eyes rapidly, she composes herself.

Her heads resting against Katya’s chest, and she thinks that’s crazy, also, because Trixie’s conflicted. She knows she likes Katya, knows she cares about her and appreciates her more than she can fathom.

She’s been the only constant presence that Trixie’s had in her life for months, asides from Michelle, but Michelle doesn’t hold her, kiss her and fuck her like Katya does, and she doesn’t want her to either because Katya gets it, gets _her_.

She’s able to reassure Trixie when she needs it most, after a show that she doesn’t think went as well as it possibly could have, or when she’s homesick, missing the fields, the outdoors and her mom.

It’s nice, and she _likes_ it, she decides, but Katya’s _wild_.

She’s an unchained tigress, a helium balloon that a child's hand has let go of, allowed to float free so that it reaches the sky, the heavens that Trixie wants to visit if it means she’ll be closer to the realm that Katya operates from constantly.

 _Crazy_ \- It plays on a loop in her head as she tries to work it out. She needs to do it soon, because It’s the morning before they arrive at the final city, and Katya seems entirely unbothered.

She’s watching a TV series that Trixie doesn’t care to remember the name of from the laptop that she has balanced on her lap, propped up by her knees. She’s quiet, calm, all while Trixie’s there, head that’s aflame with worry and uncertainty resting on her chest.

There’s so much that Trixie wants to ask her. Questions upon queries, because she doesn’t know if this is just something to keep them both sane, sated and content while they’re on the road.

She needs to ask, closing night of the tour is approaching quicker than she’d anticipated and she needs to know whether the entire situation is something Katya can envision in her future; _herself and Trixie_.

Because Trixie knows that _she_ can, but can _Katya_ , if Trixie mentions how she could return to her hometown, visit her family for a while instead of trekking to the small, shoe box apartments she owns in both L.A. and New York - where Katya’s told her she’s debating on staying for a while after the tour, just to get back to normality before whatever tour or production inevitably ends up snatching her up next.

Trixie has a clear idea of what she’d like to happen. She can’t _not_ , after spending hours, days panning over things in her mind.

She can record her next album wherever, she’s concluded. She has all of the songs already written, sheet music composed and edited so that it’s ready to be blasted into a recording booth with her producers. It won’t take long to piece together, add in riffs and notes from a keyboard, before she could plan, prepare, announce a tour.

It’d celebrate the release of the album, probably, the record for which she already has a title in mind - _Moving Parts_ , and she’d ask Katya to join her dance crew again simply because she could, allow her to skip the auditions and the callbacks, the endless waiting for a phone call, and become a fixture.

Trixie toys with the idea briefly, though knows that it’s unrealistic, wipes the thought clean from its slate and settles back into the pillows surrounding her. She sighs audibly, and Katya hears, wraps her arm tighter around Trixie’s waist all without tearing her eyes and her concentration away from her laptop.

 _Crazy_.

*****

Trixie’s kicking herself.

She’s pulling at her own hair, ripping it out in chunks and handfuls, scratching her skin so raw that she can’t touch, won’t touch incase she bleeds out and - only she’s _not_.

She’s not doing a single thing, because it’s the morning before they arrive at the airport and Katya’s still acting nonchalantly as Trixie’s head rests on her chest; a place Trixie’s become overwhelmingly comfortable with.

She’s neglected to ask Katya where she’s going, and Katya hasn’t made an effort to tell her. Trixie knows that she doesn’t have to, isn’t under any existing obligation to do so, but she wishes she had. Because Trixie’s come to realise only a couple of things, and none of those things include how to have that conversation with Katya.

The tour ended two days ago, and she doesn’t want to have to think about all of the possibilities, not now and not when she’s yet to book her plane ticket for a flight that’s jetting off in probably a matter of hours.  

Her destination is undetermined, though she knows that she’ll miss Katya if they end up in different states. She’s certain that she’s not going to find anybody that’s as Katya as Katya is anytime soon, and is fully aware that she won’t come across a person that will fuck her as good and as thoroughly as Katya does, either -

and she knows that she _loves_ her.

It’s hit her, bowled her off of her feet, and she’s acknowledged that like no longer does the feelings she has for Katya justice.

Trixie loves her, and she thinks that Katya loves her too, in the way that she looks at her with drowsy eyes in the mornings and how she squeezes Trixie’s hand gently before she steps on stage. With her teasing, cunning words that spill from her lips when Trixie’s are on her, there, and how she kisses Trixie dirtily afterwards.

Trixie sees it, but she’s been far too riddled with anxiety to take any action when they’ve been sat in cafes, restaurants and dressing rooms alike. But that feeling quells when they’re shackled up in the confines of the tour bus once again, limbs entangled and bed sheets wrapped in ribbons around them.

She looks around briefly.

The Polaroids that Trixie had tacked to the walls have been taken down, packed in a suitcase that’s being stored in the compartment underneath the bus.

It makes the room feel emptier than it ever has, even with Katya twisting a lock of her hair between her fingertips because she likes how silky it feels, and how her hand smells like Trixie’s shampoo afterwards.  

She inhales deeply, and Katya pulls her closer. A routine.

“Where are you going?”. The words break free from her thoughts, jump off of the cliff that is her tongue, without a harness and a rope. She wants to reign them back in immediately, garner them on the hook of her fishing rod before they meet Katya’s ears instantly, where the darker blonde will be able to process them, respond in whichever way she pleases.

Katya’s looking back at her with earnest eyes. It’s a look which neither comforts or terrifies Trixie, so she takes it as a good sign as Katya pauses whatever TV series she had been watching on her laptop, flips it closed and places it on the carpeted floor next to the bed.

All of her attention is on Trixie as Katya’s sitting up against the headboard, pulling Trixie with her so that they sit with their backs straight and their knees bent.

Trixie tugs the heavy duvet closer to her body, uses it as a shield even though Katya’s giving her a different look; one which tells Trixie that she knew the question was coming, and has been brewing for longer than she cares to recall.

She’s pursing her lips, and Trixie knows that it’s a sign that she’s about to answer her. Trixie almost wishes she could find her ear plugs, dig them out of the clear plastic makeup bag she keeps on her bedside table and place them in her ears, if only to block out an answer that she might not like.

“I don’t know-”. Katya starts. She’s uncertain, and it’s something that Trixie can relate to. She’s able to understand the twitch in Katya’s fingers, the tremble in her voice.

“-I’m not really one for planning”. Laughs Katya nervously. She’s picking at imaginary pieces of fluff that laden the duvet, until Trixie’s covering her hands with her own, squeezing, so that Katya’s forced to stop, gaze directly into Trixie’s blown out orbs.

Nodding her head slowly, Trixie begins stroking her thumb across Katya’s bony, lithe knuckles. The action makes her smile a little, and it feels almost inappropriate, because Katya’s normally the one taking Trixie’s hands in her own, stroking them, peppering them with fleeting butterfly kisses.

“Where would you _like_ to go?”. Tries Trixie, hoping to draw an intelligible answer from Katya’s winter chapped lips. She can tell that Katya’s thinking it through thoroughly, from how her eyes scrunch up a little, faint crows feet gathering on the outer corners.

Trixie smiles sympathetically across to her, even as she wants to press her fingertips to Katya’s aforementioned crows feet, massage up towards her temples where she knows Katya sometimes suffers from headaches and migraines that make her teeth clench, crane her neck.

“I was thinking New York-”. She musters, and it’s enough for Trixie to smile encouragingly at her, with her wonky teeth and pink tongue that pokes millimeters between them; _noticeably_.

“-I thought about going and just staying with whatever friends I have there, _y’know_? It doesn’t seem like a _bad_ idea”. Katya finishes. She seems pleased with her words, blinks affirmatively.

Trixie hums, nods her agreement. It’s not a particularly enjoyable thought, she notes, Katya sleeping on other people's worn out couches that will leave her with a crick in her back and a stiff neck for days. Trixie wants Katya in a bed with her, where she’s safe and warm and protected, away from the horrors of the outside world that wouldn’t dare infiltrate their pocket of seclusion.

But Trixie knows that she owes Katya an explanation of her plans, too, so she shifts closer towards her, tucks herself into Katya’s side where she can feel the thump of Katya’s heartbeat against her chest, her every inhale and exhale.

“I was thinking of visiting my mom for a little while”. Admits Trixie. She is, and each word she spills to Katya is the truth. She’s missed home for months, longer than she should have had to, and deems a visit to her home state, her mom and her brother on the cards.

“Yeah?”. Katya’s eyes gleam proudly, gleefully.

“ _Yeah_ , ground myself a little”.Katya chuckles at Trixie’s tentative response. She knows Trixie doesn’t need grounding, because she’s Trixie and she’s grown, is humble and kind - but she _does_ need a visit home. Katya’s seen her homesick, and it breaks her to watch Trixie break herself more than she breaks in new pairs of shoes.

Katya’s being supportive, more encouraging than Trixie thinks she’s ever seen her act, be it with her or Michelle or a friend from back home in Boston that’s called her mid way through a weekend with a heavy heart and a guilty conscience.

It makes Trixie emotional, and when it hits her she’s sniffing, leaking tears from her eyes and squeezing Katya’s hands so tightly between her own that it wouldn’t surprise her if her bones snapped, crushed under the immense pressure she was exerting.

“I just-”. A sob wracks Trixie’s body before she’s able to end her sentence, push the words out of the window of her mouth. She’s trembling, shoulders quaking as they’re hit by a hurricane of poignant sorrow.

Katya’s pulling her closer immediately, allowing Trixie to empty her tears into the crook of her neck, her shoulder.

She strokes at Trixie’s hair, sooths her, mumbles sweet nothings that she’s pretty positive Trixie’s ignoring in lieu of letting out every emotion that’s gathered in the closet of conscience, manifested into something, into pure hopelessness.

“-I’ll miss _you_ ”. She whimpers. To Katya she sounds defeated, as if she’s given up and is content with spending the remainder of her days sobbing, filling puddles and lakes and oceans, except she knows that she’s not. Trixie’s strong, exponentially so. She’ll cry, pull herself together within hours, lace up the corset of her mind.

“You have a place in New York, don’t ‘ya?”. Checks Katya. She knows that yes, Trixie does have a place in the city. It’s a small, barely there apartment according to the younger girl, where the bedroom is also the living room whilst simultaneously being a kitchen.

Trixie’s nodding slowly, bringing her head out of the cave, the shelter of Katya’s neck. Her cheeks are pink, puffy and rosy as are her eyes, bloodshot and swollen. Katya’s grinning at her, as if Trixie’s worrying about nothing, and she is, really, because Katya’s not an idiot, that much Trixie knows.

She’s overflowing with ideas, with solutions to situations that shouldn’t exist in the first place but do, because the universe works in mysterious ways, Trixie settles.

Katya’s shuffling, until she’s able to straddle Trixie.

Her slim, muscular thighs encase Trixie’s waist as her back rests against Trixie’s folded knees. The girl beneath her is glancing up at her with wide eyes as she wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt that she now has bundled up in fists.

Placing her hands on Trixie’s shoulders, Katya digs her thumbs into her joints, massages them tenderly until Trixie’s eyes flutter closed. Katya can see where her eyelashes have clumped together with tears, into twigs branching out from the tree.

Katya leans down, places a kiss to Trixie’s nose.

“Why don’t you go and visit your mom for a while, hm? Then come stay in New York? If you’ll have me, I’d be _more_ than happy to come and stay with you”. Katya’s tone is light, teasing, but Trixie knows that she’s being entirely serious, honest, from the hopeful smile she sends Trixie’s way and -

Trixie’s smiling right back, _grinning_ , because of course. It’s simple, easy, like things between the both of them have mostly always been even though Trixie feels like somehow they shouldn’t be.

Moments strike her where she feels unworthy, and she wants something complicated to happen, because Katya’s too good to her, and Trixie was horrifically rude to her at some point in time, all the while Katya had been calm, and patient, everything that Trixie never used to be.

But now she _is_ , and she’s looping her arms around Katya’s waist, pulling her down to her level. Katya’s pecking at Trixie’s cheeks, her forehead and her chin, before she gets to her lips. Their sore from nipping at them, salty from tears, but Katya kisses them like she’s always kissed Trixie; _zealously and fondly._

“Would you show me around the city?-”. Trixie breathes, tells Katya _yes_. “-I’ve never had the chance to get to know it that well”. She concludes, flushing embarrassedly.

Her knees curve higher, push Katya unwittingly closer to her, her body and her face until Katya’s whispering a single worded response into her mouth.

“ _Gladly_ ”.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can sense the handcuffs around her wrists, chaining her to the century old sign post that welcomes visitors to the town. It’s situated at the end of Trixie’s street, and it’s a fact that does nothing to quell the insistent alarm bells ringing in her mind that are reflections of her teenage self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter!!! i don’t have much to say here, except thank you to anybody who’s ever read this mess, left a comment or a kudos, it truly means so much!!
> 
> i can’t believe this has finished, but now that it has i’m excited to work on new stuff becuase honestly, i’ve kind of fallen in love with writing trixya again and i don’t think i’m ready to stop just yet,,
> 
> with that said, i hope you enjoy this chapter!!♡
> 
> (psa, i uploaded this earlier but then read over it again and found too many mistakes ((oops)) so i’ve fixed them and re uploaded)

Michelle catches the same flight to New York as Katya does; _regretfully_.

The plane is small, stuffy, and it makes Katya wish she hadn’t booked her ticket in such a haste, last minute at the departures desk. She’s never been organised, and doubts she ever will be, not with the child that’s screaming in the aisle to the left of her and the irritable man in a suit, carrying a brown leather briefcase, who’s bellowing across the interior to his colleague.

The seats are red, and the tint that they cast over Michelle’s skin makes Katya believe they’re trapped in an infrared light bulb, scorching amid the chaos that’s been set upon them by the end of the tour - the _Honey_ tour - that consisted of a thousand bee stings.

She hates flying, despises the pop that resonates in her ear drums and the way the recycled air dehydrates her skin. She hates the heights, too, but she’s not about to admit that to Michelle who has the window seat, who’s looking out of the small pane of glass as if she’s ready to jump and escape.

Katya pulls her sweatshirt tighter around her body, flicks up her hood in order to shelter her mind from the screech of the flight attendant who’s rolling the refreshments cart up and down the aisle, the phrase _may I interest you in any food or drink_ playing on a loop, buttons stuck.

She shivers as the shrill sound nears her, and turns to Michelle, seeks solace in the words of the elder woman who’s looking back at her understandingly, as if her ears are as displeased as her own.

Michelle glances over Katya’s shoulder, to the flight attendant, pulls down the blind in order to cover her window that’s being shot with sunbeams as she does so. She’s rolling her eyes, then, looking back at Katya with despair in her gaze. Katya stares back, waits for Michelle to lick her lips, open them and begin speaking.

“She’s _blonde_. Of _course_ she is, fucking-“. Michelle’s zipping her own mouth shut, clicking her teeth so that he jaw snaps closed, sharply.

She looks like she’s ready to kill, launch herself at the short skirt wearing, high voice baring blonde, but Katya’s laughing, hiding her mouth and her breath that smells of cheap, pre packaged airplane peanuts with the back of her hand.

“She’s blonde?”. Katya clicks her tongue, rolls her eyes because of course Michelle would put it down to her being blonde. She’s joking, Katya knows she is, but it still seems like insanity, the way Michelle’s borderline seething.

Katya can almost see the steam that’s coming out of her ears in sprouts, watches the man in front of her choke on it, coughing, before it evaporates into the dry air surrounding them.

“I don’t trust blondes”. Michelle states, watches Katya as she tugs at a strand of her own hair. It’s wavy, slightly frizzy from having gotten caught in a rain shower before arriving at the airport and - _blonde_.

Katya leaves go of the strand, tucks it behind her ear, under the hood of one of her sweatshirts that she thinks might be her favourite. She leans into Michelle’s space noticeably, crunches the empty bottle of water from her tray table between her fingers.

“Aren’t you naturally blonde?”. Katya reminds her, notices Michelle’s roots growing through the artificial ebony that are an amalgamation of blonde and washed out grey.

The greys have appeared with age, and Katya knows that it’s what her hairs going to the look like by the time she reaches thirty five, or forty at a push, but either way Michelle’s left grunting, knocking the bottle that Katya had been holding out of her hands, back onto the tray table.

“Ginger, _actually_ ”. Michelle clarifies, pats consciously at the side of her head where the strands of hair are being pulled back tightly, scraped into a bun that sits at her crown.

Disregarding Michelle, Katya’s attention focuses on the pink of her sweatshirt, a spec of dust that has landed on it and clung, decided it would stay there.

Her eyes trail up to where Michelle’s still looking at her, her expression having relaxed from seething to simply inconvenienced. Katya wants to wipe the look clean off of her face, because she doesn’t know what Michelle’s talking about, really, only she can’t, so she settles for pulling at the strings of her own sweatshirt instead, much to Michelle’s disdain.

“Trixie’s blonde”. Katya deadpans.

Michelle looks at her as if she’s lost her mind, as if the flight attendant had picked it up, rolled it away on that cart of hers that has squeaky wheels to match the tone of her voice, and thrown it into the cockpit for the pilots to feast on.

Katya flicks her eyes away, embarrassed, crosses her legs in front of her so that her knee bumps up against the collapsible tray table. She can feels Michelle’s gaze burning into the side of her head, through her temples and into her skull.

It hurts, and she can already hear Michelle’s words escaping her mouth, can see her lips moving even though she hasn’t dared utter a word, yet.

Katya knows that she will, eventually, or in the coming seconds, because even though it was her that slipped up, mentioned Trixie’s name, she knows that Michelle will be the one to continue the conversation.

She doesn’t want to talk about it, instead wants to fall asleep there and then despite knowing she’s never gotten a wink of sleep on a plane and being certain that she never will either. Reclining her head against the headrest of her seat, Katya releases a turbulent exhalation.

“Trixie’s also a sweetheart who doesn’t deserve to get hurt”. Michelle’s turning to face Katya, placing her hand gently on Katya’s arm and squeezing it with just enough pressure in order to make Katya aware that she’s serious.

Katya doesn’t need to be told. She knows that Michelle’s entered mother mode from the way her eyes have narrowed and eyebrows furrowed noticeably. The botox doesn’t stop her forehead creasing, and Katya chuckles internally at the thought, the way her voice has lowered an octave or two, too.

“Michelle, _what_ -“. Begins Katya, though pauses, halts immediately when Michelle shakes her head. The dark haired woman sighs, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose with the index finger of her free hand.

“I know, Katya, we _all_ know”. Michelle sounds exasperated, and Katya’s pursing her lips tightly but she can tell that Michelle cares, from the way that she’s phrased her words.

_They all know._

She’s cold, harsh most of the time, gives Trixie more criticism than she does words of encouragement, but Katya’s come to realise it’s all in good jest. It’s _tough love_ , even if she hates the phrase. Love shouldn’t be tough, except maybe when it’s coming from Michelle, she decides.

Because Michelle delivers it well, gashes wounds with her talon like nails and then kisses them with her injected lips. She means well, Katya can tell, from the way she’s still looking over at her understandingly, reassuringly.

“I get it-“. Michelle mumbles, squeezes Katya’s arm even tighter, to the extent that Katya feels as if her circulation is going to be cut off when cramp begins trailing down towards her wrist. She shakes it off, frowns at Michelle who’s looking on sympathetically.

“-I know it’s not ideal, you know, falling for one of the _biggest_ country stars in the game right now, but, _god_ Katya, you’d be an idiot not to see where things go”. Concludes Michelle, unwinds her grasp from Katya’s arm, allows the younger to wrap her arms around herself protectively.

Katya’s gaze flickers down towards her lap.  
Her sweatpants are loose around her legs, and she wishes momentarily that they were tighter, so that they’d cocoon her body, hide it from the prying eyes of on lookers; of _Michelle_.

The green eyes still blaring at her make her recoil, until she’s slouched so far into the uncomfortable airplane seat that she thinks she’s moulded into the fabric, the scratchy leather that’s probably fake.

She can’t comprehend the thoughts that are pricking at her brain cells under the scrutiny of Michelle’s well meant observations, and turns her head away, begins speaking to thin air.

“She’s the best-“. Katya sighs, picks at the nail varnish on her nails that’s already begun peeling away at the tips, red dust sprinkling onto the floor beneath her.

“-And I don’t ‘wanna mess that up”. She confesses, turns back around in order to face Michelle. She’s still looking back at the blue eyed girl, lashes blinking rapidly as she nods her head.

Katya knows she doesn’t have to elaborate further. Michelle is reaching so far into her skull that she can see Katya’s thoughts for herself, can swallow them down akin to a pill or two without a single sip, or drop of water.

It terrifies Katya a little to think about, that somebody asides from herself and Trixie know what’s going on in the universe that they’ve created for themselves behind closed doors in dressing rooms and seedy dollar price cafes - But it also calms her.

She doesn’t have to utter an explanation to Michelle when she already knows, can work her way through all of Katya’s dilemmas and come up with solutions that should’ve been obvious to Katya in the first place.

Michelle lifts the window blind back up, allows light back into their row of seats on the plane that Katya doesn’t quite hate so much anymore. Just dislikes. The rays hit her pupils directly, leave her with flecks of green and red and yellow in her eyesight every time she blinks and it makes her feel as if she’s been transported back to one of Trixie’s concert venues; with strobe lighting and retro _70’s_ disco balls.

“She’s crazy about you-“. Affirms Michelle, and the statement makes the corners of Katya’s mouth turn up, crinkle into a soft, simple smile.

 _Trixie_.

Katya’s nodding her head. She’s crazy about Trixie too, she’s beyond insane about her. Trixie’s name is etched into the palms of her hands, her eyelids and her tongue so that she can taste her constantly, the effect she has on Katya and her mere existence.

“-and I know you’re crazy about her too, but please for the love of god, don’t hurt her. I don’t think I have enough years left in me to deal with a heartbroken Trixie”. Michelle banters, rubs at her temples.

Katya can see her thin skin creasing under her touch, and she knows Michelle’s not much older than she is but she feels half the woman’s age with the wisdom and the knowledge that’s stored in her head, is spread amongst people she knows.

“Don’t worry-“. Katya bites at her bottom lip, thanks Michelle silently.

_“-I’m never hurting that woman”._

*****

Visiting her mom is exactly what Trixie needs.

She knew it would be, that it couldn’t _not_ be, from her first initial thoughts she’d had about returning to when she booked her ticket at the departures desk, payed with her credit card and shaky hands as Michelle and Katya stood either side of her.

It’s a shock to her system, is such a contrast to what her life has been for months, years, where she’s been the alter that people have prayed at in the churches of venues, the candle that people have melted down to its wick.

People don’t know her name here, but she feels like she’s found herself again, found _Trixie_ , in the country roots of oak and elm trees. The branches that keep pathways and dusty track roads - that have made her leather boots dirty and gritty - hidden from sight.

She’s paced said roads countless times since she arrived, in a whirlwind of suitcases and disenchantment with the universe, until she’d knocked on the door to her mom’s house. The woman, with hair greyer than Trixie remembered, opened the door bearing a wide smile with open arms, arms that Trixie had launched herself into, tasted the scent of apple pie which lingered in the elder woman's short locks.

It’s _home_ , and the fields are wide and beautiful around her, even in the harsh breeze of winter that casts a thin layer of frosted dew over the green sprigs of grass every morning, religiously. It’s familiar, and daunting, to be reminded that all of this still exists, outside of her world of touring and performing; travelling _constantly_.

She can see the farm across the numerous crop fields from the yellowed glass of her bedroom window, and can smell the crackle of the fire that’s burning downstairs.

The marshmallow scent of the diffuser that sits on her bed side table mingles with it, fills her nostrils so that she feels like her seven year old self again, dolls and drawings scattered across her bed that she can’t remember, doesn’t attribute it being either white or blue.

She blinks once, tries to recall.

It’s not like she’d forgotten it entirely, but the memories had become distorted, unintelligible in the back corners of her mind that she’d learnt to separate from everything else. From her commitment to her work, her own requirement not to include too much of her _off-stage_ self in her _on-stage_ Trixie.  

She sighs, knows her worrying is futile when she’s here, in her mom’s house, with her mom and her brother downstairs, chatting about their day in the small town before they slip away, float off to bed and drift into a peaceful slumber.

Sinking back into her bed, the pillows smelling of that same rose fabric conditioner that she does recall, she reaches for her phone where she can see it illuminating, flashing with notifications.

There’s one there from her mom, that she’d sent earlier in the day, telling Trixie how she _couldn’t wait for her to arrive_ , and how they just had to visit Trixie’s uncle and aunt that she doubts she’s seen since she was twelve or thirteen - when she was just growing into herself, understanding who she could be if she shook off the shackles of the small town and the expectations of a young, _pretty_ woman.

She shivers slightly, reads the one that sits unread from Michelle, also, where she’s telling Trixie to _enjoy her time off._

It’s nice, and it leaves Trixie’s heart light because despite Michelle’s tendency to be cutting, insensitive, she knows that Michelle holds Trixie’s well being as close to her heart as she does large earrings and acrylic nails.

The messages make her smile, but the one that’s there, the most recent message, makes her grin. It’s from _Katya_ , and Trixie finds herself swiping open the text briskly with her thumb, raking her eyes slowly over the picture that Katya’s sent along with it.

Her plane has landed in New York, and the picture that she’s sent through in haste is both blurry and crooked. She’s still on the plane, looks tired, exhausted, and Trixie knows that it’s from the lack of sleep that Katya’s gotten on the plane, because she can never fall under with the altitude change and the screaming children, she states.

Trixie knows that she hates the height at which the plane flies as well, will grip the arm rests of the seat tighter when they go through patches of turbulence in the same manor that her pulse will race if she ever gets too close to the edge of the stage whilst performing.

Katya won’t admit it, ever, but Trixie’s realised, and laughs at the sight of Katya’s hair that pokes our randomly, in all directions from the hood of her sweatshirt.

It leaves Trixie rolling her eyes, because of course Katya has chosen to wear an item of Trixie’s merchandise, the one that’s millennial pink with a goofily depicted cartoon caricature and Trixie’s name plastered across the front - and the back - in an overblown, bubble font.

She taps the screen to stop it from fading to black, re reads the message that Katya’s attaches to the picture once, twice, three times until she can’t remember anything apart from those words; _Katya’s_ words.

**Katya: Just landed, was grateful for your face being on my tits the whole journey ♡**

Snickering to herself at Katya’s choice of phrase, Trixie makes quick work of snapping a photo of herself. She sends one back of just her own eyes and nose that peak out over the edge of her spot patterned duvet cover, and doesn’t type a reply, knows that Katya isn’t expecting to receive one when minutes later Katya sends a simple heart icon as her response.

It’s their version of a distanced good night, Trixie guesses, an unflattering photograph followed by a heart icon that Trixie already believes she’s going to be over thinking for hours, wondering whether Katya means it literally or if she’s an individual that will send them over to anybody; her doctor, manager, landlord - if she had one.

Trixie wants her to mean it, wishes for Katya to type out an _I love you_ that Trixie will fawn over, re read until she loses her eyesight and her phone battery dies.

The good thing is, is that she thinks that Katya does.

She wants Katya to be there with her, too, to wrap her arm around her waist, pull her in closer and whisper a sweet goodnight that would form sugar granules on the tip of her tongue, cause her to lick at her lips and moisten them from their winter chapped state.

Trixie almost longs for the whole ordeal to make her feel inconvenienced. It’s what she would have wanted at one point, she acknowledges, as she spots a picture of herself and her high school friends at senior prom, hanging from a pin board on her wall in her peripheral vision.

She hadn’t been in love back then. Told herself she never would be, that she’d focus on her career and herself; always progressing and developing her character to meet her aspirations.

It’s laughable now, she knows, because god is she in love, with a woman who promises her the universe in every glance, makes her feel the stars in said universe with every touch and every kiss that sends her rocketing.

It’s far from an inconvenience.

Trixie knows she’ll see her in a week or so, in New York. Surrounded by car sirens and horns in an apartment that she doesn’t quite recall, can’t quite place what art work she has hanging from the walls or what kitchen utensils she has stashed away for the rare occasions that she finds herself there.

But for now she knows she’s home, with birds tweeting and cawing outside her window, blissfully and comfortably irritating, so she falls asleep contentedly, heart icons flashing behind her eyelids.

*****

Trixie calls Katya in the early hours of the morning mid way through the week.

A _Wednesday_.

Her room is cold, despite the thick knitted blankets she’s wrapped around her body, the hot water bottle she has snuggled close to her chest. Goosebumps prickle her skin as she presses her icy toes into her ankles, twists on top of the mattress until the springs coil under her back.

She wants to complain, but Katya’s sleeping on her friend Sasha’s couch. She’d messaged Trixie complaining that she couldn’t sleep, not with the sounds of Sasha and her girlfriend Shea moaning so audibly through the walls.

It makes Trixie laugh, because normally Katya doesn’t care how loud she is when she’s doing anything; talking, ordering take out, _fucking_.

Trixie wants to tell her that much, inform her that it’s simply karma that has tracked her down, found her, and is merely doing the work that it intends to do.

She can’t do that, however, not when Katya’s typed out words had been so convincing, filled with the want and the need for Trixie to call her, lull her to sleep on the worn out couch with tender words and softer anecdotes.

So Trixie calls her in giggles, and Katya’s giggling too, into the darkness of the small living room, the couch cushions that smell like essential oils and smoke. She has to be quiet, with the cold glass of her phone against the shell of her ear, can’t alert both Sasha and Shea.

It’s because she knows they’d stop fucking, peel their fingers off of each other, come out to see what Katya’s up to. She’d have to stop talking to Trixie, and that’s not something she wants, ever, to have to do.

She wants earphones that play only Trixie’s music to be welded to her ears, so that she can listen to the strum of her guitar and the pluck of her vocals constantly. She wants Trixie to stand at the doors of every room she steps foot inside, scream into a megaphone that would project her voice even louder just so Katya could feel it razoring at her skin.

She’d listen to Trixie’s rambles and tangents for hours, days on end because Trixie’s voice is honey embodied, a glaze that Katya would happily drown in.

The elder sighs.

It’s cold in New York like it is in Trixie’s home town, with crystalline ice sticking to sidewalks and window panes that will drip with condensation when they warm up eventually.

Katya’s wrapped up in blankets similar to how Trixie is, in sheets that she’s pretty sure that Sasha’s hand knitted from patchwork’s of cotton and wool that have come from left over design project of Shea’s. They’re not the best but they’ll do, Katya settles, because her skin might be cold but Trixie’s voice is warm, lava in her ears.

She’s starting to describe the horses that she’d spotted earlier in the day, it turns out, in a paddock that was an hour's walk away from her house.

Katya doesn’t know how Trixie managed to brave the weather conditions in order to venture that far, but the image that’s projected onto the white brick wall of her mind, of Trixie bundled up in seven layers and a coat, causes her to bite at her bottom lip that’s trembling in the lack of heat.

Katya listens on, focused, twirls a loose thread on one of the aforementioned crocheted blankets between her thumb and forefinger.

“There was a _really_ pretty white one, it had these like, grey spots-”. Trixie breathes. She’s moved so that she’s laying on her stomach, propped up by her elbows and blankets on her bed. She’s feels suffocated, wants to rip the stuffy old blankets away despite still being bleak, algid.

She twists her neck, puts her phone on loud speaker so that she can worm her hands under her pillows, scrunch the pliable material in her grasp.

“-It reminded me of you”. She finishes, settling her head into the same pillows. It leaves Katya gaping blankly at the wall ahead of her, her eyes failing to accommodate the green of the paint and the abstract drawings that are hooked across the majority of them.

_It reminded me of you._

“What?-”. Katya gasps in response, sits up straight with a bolt of electricity to her spine. She’s used to Trixie’s random, off cut and and off beat comparisons, from how she’d once described Katya as a fresh piercing, apparent and new, to when she’d braided Katya’s freshly washed hair, told her she looked like a _60’s_ housewife.

The recollections make Katya’s nostrils flare in a low giggle, because a _horse_ , that’s unheard of.

“-Did you just compare me to a horse? Trixie _what_?-”. Wheezing, Katya covers her mouth with her free hand, laughs lowly into her calloused palm.

She can feel her breath warming her frigid hand, thawing it out until she feels the tips of her fingers tingling, regaining their senses with every minute particle of air that hits them frivolously.

Trixie laughs freely. Her mom is out, somewhere; Trixie thinks she has a date, and her brother is staying at a friends house in the next town over, just for the night. She kicks her legs under the duvet, continues twisting blankets up unwittingly in her fists as Katya’s airy chuckle fills her ears.

Trixie enjoys Katya’s voice, Katya’s laugh as much as the darker blonde loves hers. It’s absurd, the extents Trixie would willingly go to if only to make her laugh, chortle, just so Trixie could comment teasingly on her smokers voice.

She never means it, even if she doesn’t condone smoking unless it’s getting her high, transporting her to a space station somewhere far off. It’s hypocritical and Katya knows that, understands that Trixie likes the rasp, the husk, that wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for the packs of twenty, or forty, that Katya lights and inhales religiously.

“I wish I was there to meet my clone with you-”. Jokes Katya, sighing. Trixie laughs again, through her nose, until Katya’s opening her mouth again, licking at her teeth as words continue to reel off of the tip of her tongue.

The glass of her phone screen is slowly warming against her ear, and part of her thinks that it’s Trixie’s effect; down to the fire that escapes the matches of her throat with every flicker of her vocal chords.

“-Longest week of my life, being away from you for this long”. She admits before Trixie’s able to respond, listens to Trixie hum her agreement without hesitation.

Katya’s unquestionably right, trixie decides.  
She feels as if she’s been back home for longer than she was ever home at all - _eighteen years_ \- and it almost has her feeling as if she’ll never get the chance to leave again.

She can sense the handcuffs around her wrists, chaining her to the century old sign post that welcomes visitors to the town. It’s situated at the end of Trixie’s street, and it’s a fact that does nothing to quell the insistent alarm bells ringing in her mind that are reflections of her teenage self.

 _Get out_.

She’s pinching at her thighs, because she did get out, is _still_ out, really. As soon as the week is over, she has a flight booked to New York, where she’ll meet Katya again, and maybe Katya’s friends that the elder speaks so fondly of if she’s lucky, she guesses.

She’s not chained to her moms existence, or the fence that surrounds her house in white pickets, and it’s reaffirming to realise that with Katya still breathing down the phone, muttering to herself about _cold_ and _blankets_ and _wish you were here_.

Trixie gets it.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad”. Trixie responds, and she can practically see Katya nodding in the reflection of her full length mirror that stands across from her bed, and in the pattern of her bed sheets that she can barely make out in the dark of the room, too.

Katya reclines further into the sofa on the other end of the phone line, stretches her legs far out in front of her. The rickety springs aren’t doing much good to her spine, and she’s thankful that she doesn’t have to stay on them for much longer, even if she is grateful for the constant company of Sasha, and her girlfriend Shea also.

They’ve been kind, compassionate, dealt with Katya when she’s been groggy in the mornings and hyperactive in the nights after chugging three coffees and an energy drink, haphazardly.

It’s been nice, to spend time with one of the people she’s able to connect with both emotionally and intellectually, outside of family and Michelle and _Trixie_.

She taps her nails against her knee cap, feels the thrum all the way down the length of her legs, into her ankle and toes. She wiggles them, points them, licks at her lips when she hears Trixie coughing down the phone line from the ticklish fibres of her blankets.

Katya clears her throat.

“When you love somebody you ‘wanna be close to them I guess”.

The words leave Katya easily, and Trixie can tell that she hasn’t thought them through thoroughly, didn’t feel the need to do so before each syllable poured from the fountain of her mouth, dripped into Trixie’s ears.

They’re molten drops of lava that burn at her skin, etch heart shapes and Katya’s name in the bones of her ribs that shelter the lungs that keep her breathing, the heart that keeps blood pumping around her body.

Trixie’s a stone column; _unmoving_.

Because she knows, undeniably that she loves Katya, and she had thought that Katya loved her too, but they’ve never spoken about it. Never told each other in order to discuss it, to avoid it coming to light over a phone call, six, seven, _eight_ states apart.

She has questions emanating from every cell in her brain that are begging to be answered, tied up with a lace bow by Trixie’s fingers. None of them stick out, they’re jumbled and stuck together, entangled in one another. She wants to rip them out, spew them to Katya so that she can answer in sentences, paragraphs, speeches.

“You _love_ me?”. She’s dumbfounded, unable to form a feasible thought that doesn’t include Katya and love and -

 _No_. She doesn’t want to form a thought in that moment that doesn’t include Katya or love, because she is in love with Katya and she’s not ashamed about that fact.

She relishes in it, wants to prick it into her skin, paint it on the faded pale lilac walls of her room in a shade of scarlet red that would match Katya’s lipstick; blood red and honest.

“Quit it, Trix, I’ve loved you since you made me look through your outfits with you because Michelle was busy that night”. Her voice doesn’t waver in the slightest, instead stays at that constant plateau of sincerity that Trixie’s become used to.

Trixie’s in shock. Because that was a long time ago, she notes, and sure, she liked Katya then, valued her immensely, but love didn’t cross her mind like it does now.

 _Katya_.

The name lies under the definition of love in the dictionary of Trixie’s soul, is illuminated in the fairy lights that adorn her walls and her bookshelves that she never thought would encapsulate that feeling.

She’s filled with relief, mostly, and then she’s laughing raucously, flailing on her bed while Katya’s mumbles confusedly to her. It’s stupid, crazy, and salty tears are leaking from the lakes in her eyes without her permission.

_“I love you too”._

*****

A day before Trixie’s due to fly to New York, Katya video calls her.

Trixie’s sitting on her bed, surrounded by sheets of paper that have been covered in writing, song lyrics, notes and chords that Trixie’s reminded herself to play when she picks up her guitar next.

The room smells like her moms apple pie, toasted cinnamon swirls, and her mouth tastes like it too. The empty plate that she’d scraped clean balances precariously on her bedside table, and every time she twists, turns, she fears that she’ll send it crashing to the ground.

She’s cautious, wraps herself in a fleece blanket that she’s dug from the depths of her old wardrobe. It’s tattered, stained with what Trixie seems to be tomato or minestrone soup that she’d spilt on it as a child.

The thought makes her roll her eyes at herself, because she’s still as clumsy as she’s ever been and ever will be, with her phone having already found its way to the aforementioned floor.

Her laptop sits directly in front of her crossed legs, though, and when Katya calls she answers with a single click, sits back against her headboard so that she can easily take in Katya’s appearance.

She’s sat on a couch, one that’s piled high with crocheted cushions and a couple of empty juice boxes. They’re orange, and Trixie knows they’re Katya’s favourite ones from the numerous times she’s bought packs upon packs of them onto the tour bus to sip on.

The darker blondes hand is busy, working it’s way through a pack of barbecue chips that Trixie bets are making her fingertips smell of the flavouring, staining them an orange red.

The sight is a strange one to Trixie, because Katya doesn’t eat unhealthily often, likes to fill her body with the best things that she’s able to locate when she’s dancing on tour, awakening in a different city each and every day.

She knows it’s a little, if not majorly contradictory, when katya will eat a salad or a portion of pasta and wash it down with two energy drinks and a couple of cigarettes. But she guesses some commitment is better than none, when she watches her inhale the murky smoke, light up a joint around the back doors of the venue.

Licking at her lips, Trixie feels left over crumbs brush away under her tongue. They fall to her chin, then her lap, and she knows her bed will be covered with flakes of pastry, which will mean she’ll have to wipe down the surface before she sleeps, but Katya’s there on the screen.

She’s looking into Trixie’s eyes through the artificial pixelated image of her, the camera that blurs her just a little. She stuffs chips into her mouth, crunches them so that the sound echoes in the minute microphone, crackles until it reaches Trixie’s ears.

“Post tour cheat day?”. Trixie asks, leaves Katya narrowing her eyes and scrunching up her nose. She places the chip that was already in her hand into her mouth, bites into it, before she folds the bag closed.

She places it on the coffee table that Trixie assumes that her laptop is also balancing on, brings the blanket that’s covering her legs up to her chin when she sits back, let’s her head rest against the back of the couch cushions.

“Post tour cheat _month_ ”. Answers Katya, mouth still filled with fragments of chips that she’s already beginning to regret eating. She feels too full, bloated, to the extent that even her loose sweatpants feel too tight on her legs that she swears have expanded, grown a size or two in the mater of minutes.

Trixie laughs, and her chest jiggles with it. Katya can just about see the crease of her cleavage from how Trixie’s arms are folded, keeping the blanket wrapped securely around her. She watches none the less, catches Trixie smirking fondly at her when she realises where the majority of Katya’s attention is focused.

“Welcome to my life”. Trixie mumbles, allows Katya to roll her eyes in response before she takes them across what’s visible of Trixie’s body. There’s not much, but it’s enough to get Katya salivating, wanting to slit herself between Trixie’s thick, soft thighs.

“Maybe when you get here I’ll feed you some more-“. Katya begins, unknowingly reminds Trixie of what’s been flashing inside her mind for the whole duration of the day.

When she gets there. One day. _Twenty four hours._

It’s so close that Trixie can practically already feel Katya’s arms encasing her in a crushing embrace, can hear her voice whispering into Trixie’s ear about how much she’s missed her and her touch.

Trixie wants it all. Wants Katya’s nails to dig into the flesh of her breasts, needs Katya’s lips on hers, on her jaw, chin, and neck also.

“-Grow that _amazing_ ass of yours a ‘lil more”. Trixie realises she’ll get exactly that as Katya finishes her hypothesis. She’ll receive all of Katya’s delicate touches, and the not so gentle ones that will make her bite into the centre of her bottom lip, claw at the bed sheets until she feels as if they’re going to rip under the force exerted on them.

Katya has the ability to make her cry, whimper and scream in the same breath so that she’s left gasping for air, searching for oxygen to draw into her lungs. She fucks her good and loves her even _better_ ; a dream woman that Trixie almost feels she’s conjured up in her imagination.

Though she knows she hasn’t, is certain of that much, so she scoffs, blushes deeply and changes the subject of their conversation. She’s not about to get so worked up that she has to get herself off before seeing Katya, because she knows no matter what she does it’s not going to be as good, feel as satisfying.

“I thought you liked to eat somewhat healthily for dancing”. Trixie hiccups, sips at a cold cup of home brewed coffee that she’s left on her bed side table for an hour or two too long.

Katya’s shrugging, sighing almost dramatically into the room surrounding her. Trixie watches as she seemingly physically deflates, eyes downturned and lips pursed tightly into a thin, undetectable line.

Uncertain Katya isn’t a version of the girl that Trixie sees often, if at all, most days. Katya’s confident, loud and outgoing, soulful and energetically passionate about people - until her demons kick in, begin fighting back.

Trixie knows that everybody has them, and understands that Katya’s can be especially dark when her anxiety intermingles, weaves it’s way into every thread of her subconscious.

“I don’t know-“. She admits simply, scrapes the last remaining chunk of nail varnish off of her right thumb. It falls to the floor of the apartment, Sasha’s apartment, and she watches it as it goes, dwindles to a piece of forgotten dust.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, honestly. I don’t think many people want to hire an almost thirty year old dancer, _y’know_?”. Katya’s question is hypothetical, but Trixie’s gasping audibly.

The idea is inconceivable, to her. That there would be people out there who wouldn’t hire Katya. She’s talented, incredibly so, and it’s a fact that Trixie’s been acutely aware of since Michelle had introduced her to the zany blonde over a year ago.

She’d bounded into the rehearsal, all frizzy hair and white porcelain teeth that Trixie wanted to knock out as she dropped into splits and high kicks that threatened to break backs and necks around the room.

She’s flexible, rhythmic, more so than half of the other dancers that were on Trixie’s last tour that were almost a decade younger than her.

It’s insanity to Trixie, and she’s mumbling an _I would_ , without thinking about it, leaves Katya’s ears ringing. She’s buzzing, cocking a sculpted eyebrow in Trixie’s direction.

“I’m not joking”. Trixie chuckles lightly, leans back into the stacks of pillows surrounding her before she places down the now empty cup of coffee back onto the bedside table.

“I was thinking about it, and, uh-“. Trixie clears her throat awkwardly, confesses to Katya who’s glancing at her as if she’s truly lost her mind, this time. Katya slouches, moves in order to rest her elbows on her knees that are bent slightly, feet resting flat on the springs of the couch.

“-I don’t know what’s going to happen-“.  
Katya nods her head slowly at Trixie’s partial continuation, encourages her to finish articulating the thoughts that won’t quite leave the cellar at the front of her head. Trixie shrugs her shoulders once.

“-I don’t know what will come of anything, at this point, but I know what I’d _like_ to happen, and that’d definitely include you joining me on my next tour”. Trixie hurries, leaves Katya staring directly at Trixie, through her skull and to the lilac wall behind her.

“I-“. Katya attempts, only for Trixie to cut her off within seconds of her beginning. It’s unintentional, but it makes Katya’s heart bob to the surface of her throat, until she’s sure that it’s going to beat right out of her being, up through her mouth and onto the floor to join her crumbs of nail varnish and potato chips.

Raising her hand, Trixie shakes her head. It’s a signal of not yet, and Katya knows that it’s best to allow Trixie to talk, because she can have her say later but right now Trixie’s overwhelmed, feelings springing from her eye sockets.

“Look-“. Trixie pauses to rub at the creases forming on her forehead. “-I don’t know when it’ll be, what it’ll include, and god you don’t have to commit to anything right now but I’d- _really_ \- like it if you’d be there”. Her eyes lock with Katya’s as she exhales, lets the puff of air that she had been withholding blow at the strands of hair framing her face.

Trixie’s frowning, worriedly, but then Katya’s grinning manically, and Trixie knows then that she has nothing to fret over, because this is Katya, the woman from Boston who’s flipped Trixie’s beliefs and inhibitions on their heads, buried them six feet under.

“Trixie, you idiot, _yes_. I’m there”.

*****

_Opening night._

Trixie repeats it to herself as she steps off of the stage, has her assistant unclip her microphone from the little electrical pack that’s tucked into her belt.

It sounds surreal to her own ears, and she keeps repeating it to herself as she enters the door to her dressing room. The venues larger than the ones she played at on her last tour, with crowds of thousands that all wear her characterised merchandise and sing her individual lyrics.

The dressing room is bigger than any of the ones she’s stayed in before, too, and it feels like the progression that she know she deserves after working and grafting for so long to make this all happen.

It’s justified, and Trixie allows herself to smile gleefully at her reflection that beams back at her through the yellow lit mirror that takes up the majority of the wall.

She sinks into the comfortable arm chair that sits in front of said mirror as strong arms wrap around her shoulders, squeeze at her with pride and admiration. Lips press to her temple, hover next to her ear that’s pulsing from the volume of the music that had blasted throughout the arena. She grins, looks up.  
Katya.

“You did so good, doll”. Katya’s mumbling, and Trixie’s warm, heated with the words that flow past Katya’s smudged red lipstick.

She wants to turn around, mix said red with her own nude pink, create an off mauve that she’d never wear if it came packaged in a tube but would go crazy over if it came straight from the girl who’s looking at her with eyes that are gleaming, teeth that are nipping teasingly at her shoulder blades.

She doesn’t, though, instead nods her head slowly, allows the feeling of content to spread throughout her body. Because _yeah_ , she thinks to herself -

_I did good._

**Author's Note:**

> also feel free to come chat with me over on tumblr! @ silvervelour ♡


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